She rose without haste.  “Do you call that a fair way of putting it—­to say that I play you false because I refuse to involve you in our family disasters?  I don’t think any one could blame me for that.”

“What they could blame you for is this—­for backing out of what is practically a marriage, and for deserting me in a way that will make it seem as if I had deserted you.  Quite apart from the fact that life won’t be worth anything to me without you, it will mean ruin as a man of honor if I go home alone.  Every one will say—­every one—­that I funked the thing because your father—­”

She hastened to speak.  “That’s a very urgent reason.  I admit its force—­”

She paused because there was a sound of voices overhead.  Footsteps came along the upper hall and began to descend the stairs.  Presently Davenant could be heard saying: 

“Then I shall tell Harrington that they may as well foreclose at one time as another.”

“Just as well.”  Guion’s reply came from the direction of his bedroom door.  “I see nothing to be gained by waiting.  The sooner it’s over the sooner to sleep, what?”

“They’re talking about the mortgage on the property,” she explained, as Davenant continued to descend.  “This house is to be sold—­and everything in it—­”

“Which is one more reason why we should be married without delay.  I say,” he added, in another tone, “let’s have him in.”

“Oh no!  What for?”

Before she could object further, Ashley had slipped out into the hall.

“I say!  Come along in.”

His attitude as he stood with hands thrust into his jacket pockets and shoulders squared bespoke conscious superiority to the man whom he was addressing.  Though Davenant was not in her line of vision she could divine his astonishment at this easy, English unceremoniousness, as well as his resentment to the tone of command.  She heard him muttering an excuse which Ashley interrupted with his offhand “Oh, come in.  Miss Guion would like to see you.”

She felt it her duty to go forward and second this invitation.  Davenant, who was standing at the foot of the staircase, murmured something about town and business.

“It’s too late for town and business at this hour,” Ashley objected.  “Come in.”

He withdrew toward the room where Olivia was standing between the portieres of the doorway.  Davenant yielded, partly because of his ignorance of the small arts of graceful refusal, but more because of his curiosity concerning the man Olivia Guion was to marry.  He had some interest, too, in observing one who was chosen where he himself had been rejected.  It would afford an answer to the question, “What lack I yet?” with which he was tormented at all times.  That it could not be a flattering answer was plain to him from the careless, indefinable graces of Ashley’s style.  It was a style that Davenant would have scorned to imitate, but which