Fortunately, when he had sprung out of bed the feeling became less poignant.  By the time he had had his bath and his breakfast it had got itself within the limits of what could be expressed in the statement:  “I’ve been a jolly ass.”

Though there was no denying this fact, he could nevertheless use the reproach in its precise signification.  He was not a jolly ass because he had remained true to Olivia Guion, but because of the extravagant methods of his faithfulness.  No one but an Umfraville, he declared, would have hesitated to accept the status quo.  Considering that in spite of everything he was still eager to give Olivia the shelter of his name and the advantages of his position, his insistence on doing more fell short of the grotesque.

Nevertheless he had insisted on it, and it was too late to shrink from making good his offer.  No doubt, if he did so shrink, Olivia would commend him; but it would be a commendation not inconsistent with a fall in her esteem.  His nerves still tingled with the joy of hearing her say, as she had said yesterday:  “You’re the noblest man in the world; I never dreamed there could be any one like you.”  She was so sparing with her words that these meant more from her than from another.  If she used them, it was because she thought he was the noblest man in the world and because he did surpass her dreams.  This was setting up the standard in a way that permitted no falling short of it.  He must be Rupert Ashley at his best even if the world went to pieces while he made the attempt.  Moreover, if he failed, there was always Peter Davenant ready to loom up above him.  “I must keep higher than him,” he said to himself, “whatever it costs me.”  So, little by little, the Umfraville in him also woke, with its daredevil chivalry.  It might be said to have urged him on, while the Ashley prudence held him back, when from his room in the hotel he communicated by telephone with Olivia, begging her to arrange an interview between Guion and himself about eleven o’clock.

* * * * *

On taking the message to her father Olivia found him awake, but still in bed.  Since his downfall had become generally known, she had noticed a reluctance on his part to get up.  It was true he was not well; but his shrinking from activity was beyond what his degree of illness warranted.  It was a day or two before she learned to view this seeming indolence as nothing but the desire to creep, for as many hours as possible out of the twenty-four, into the only refuge left to him.  In his bed he was comparatively safe, not from the law, which he no longer had to fear, but from intrusion and inspection, and, above all, from sympathy.

It was between nine and ten o’clock.  The blinds were up, the windows open, and the sunshine was streaming in.  A tray with his scarcely tasted breakfast on it stood beside the bed.  Guion lay on his back, his head sunk deep into the pillows.  Though his face was turned from the door and his eyes closed, Olivia knew he was not sleeping.  After performing small tasks in the room, carrying the breakfast tray into the hall, and lowering the blinds, she sat down at the bedside.