He looked at his watch.  It was only half-past eight.  “I’ve no excuse for not going,” he said to himself.  He made it clear to his heart that he regretted the necessity.  After the brave decisions to which he had come, decisions which he might have put into execution, it was a call backward, a retrogression.  He began already to be afraid that he might not be so resolute a second time.  But he had no excuse for not going.  That fact took the matter out of his hands.  There was nothing to do but to crumple the letter into his pocket, take down his evening overcoat from its peg, and leave the house before any one knew he had entered.

The night was mild.  It was so soft and scented that it might have been in June.  From the stars and the street-lamps and the line of electrics along the water’s edge there was just light enough to show the surface of the river, dim and metallic, and the wisps of vapor hovering above the marshes.  In the east, toward Cambridge and beyond Boston, the sky was bright with the simulation of the dawn that precedes the moonrise.

His heart was curiously heavy.  If he walked rapidly it was none the less reluctantly.  For the first time since he had taken part and lot in the matter in hand he had no confidence in himself.  He had ceased to be able to say, “I’m not in love with her,” while he had no other strengthening formula to put in its place.

Algonquin Avenue, which older residents still called Rodney Lane, was as still and deserted as a country road.  The entry gate to Tory Hill clicked behind him with curious, lonely loudness.  The gravel crunched in the same way beneath his tread.  Looking up at the house, he saw neither light nor sign of living.  There was something stricken and sinister about the place.

He was half-way toward the front door when a white figure came forward beneath the Corinthian portico.  If it had not been so white he couldn’t have seen it.

“I’m here, Mr. Davenant.”

The voice, too, sounded lonely, like a voice in a vast, empty house.  He crossed the lawn to the portico.  Olivia had already reseated herself in the wicker chair from which she had risen at his approach.

“Aren’t you afraid of taking cold?” She had not offered him her hand; both hands were hidden in the folds of her voluminous wrap.  He said the simplest thing he could think of.

“No.  I’m wearing a very warm fur-lined cloak.  It’s very long, too.  I couldn’t stay indoors.  The house seemed so—­so dead.”

“Is there nobody with you?”

“Colonel Ashley went back to town before dinner.  Papa wasn’t quite so well.  He’s trying to sleep.  Will you sit down on the step, or go in and bring out a chair?  But perhaps you’ll find it chilly.  If so, we’ll go in.”

She half rose, but he checked her.  “Not at all.  I like it here.  It’s one of our wonderful, old-fashioned Octobers, isn’t it?  Besides, I’ve got an overcoat.”