“Since when?”

The look with which Rodney Temple accompanied the question once more affected Davenant oddly.  It probably made the same impression on Guion, since he replied with a calmness that seemed studied:  “Since—­lately.  Why do you ask?”

“Oh, for no reason.  It only strikes me as curious that your sympathy should take that turn.”

“Precisely,” Miss Guion chimed in.  “It’s not a bit like you, papa.  You used to be harder on dishonorable things than any one.”

“Well, I’m not now.”

It was clear to Davenant by this time that in these words Guion was not so much making a statement as flinging a challenge.  He made that evident by the way in which he sat upright, squared his shoulders, and rested a large, white fist clenched upon the table.  His eyes, too, shone, glittered rather, with a light quite other than that which a host usually turns upon his guests.  To Davenant, as to Mrs. Temple, it seemed as if he had “something on his mind”—­something of which he had a persistent desire to talk covertly, in the way in which an undetected felon will risk discovery to talk about the crime.

No one else apparently at the table shared this impression.  Rodney Temple, with eyes pensively downcast, toyed with the seeds of a pear, while Miss Guion and Mrs. Fane began speaking of some other incident of what to them was above everything else, “the Service.”  A minute or two later Olivia rose.

“Come, Cousin Cherry.  Come, Drusilla,” she said, with her easy, authoritative manner.  Then, apparently with an attempt to make up for her neglect of Davenant, she said, as she held the door open for the ladies to pass:  “Don’t let them keep you here forever.  We shall be terribly dull till you join us.”

He was not too dense to comprehend that the words were conventional, as the smile she flung him was perfunctory.  Nevertheless, the little attention pleased him.

II

The three men being left together, Davenant’s conviction of inner excitement on the part of his host was deepened.  It was as if, on the withdrawal of the ladies, Guion had less intention of concealing it.  Not that at first he said anything directly or acted otherwise than as a man with guests to entertain.  It was only that he threw into the task of offering liqueurs and passing cigars a something febrile that caused his two companions to watch him quietly.  Once or twice Davenant caught Temple’s eye; but with a common impulse each hastily looked elsewhere.

“So, Mr. Davenant, you’ve come back to us.  Got here only this afternoon, didn’t you?  I wonder why you came.  Having got out of a dull place like Waverton, why should you return to it?”

Looking the more debonair because of the flush in his face and the gleam in his eye, Guion seated himself in the place his daughter had left vacant between his two guests.  Both his movements and his manner of speech were marked by a quick jerkiness, which, however, was not without a certain masculine grace.