So, as the minute of foolish, jealous terror passed away, he began to enjoy the mellow peace of the old house.  It was the first thing he had enjoyed since landing in America.  His pleasure was largely in the anticipation of soon leaving that country with all the honors and Olivia Guion besides.

It was a gratification to the Ashley spirit, too, to note how promptly the right thing had paid.  It was really something to take to heart.  The moral to be drawn from his experiences at the heights of Dargal had been illustrated over and over again in his career; and this was once more.  If he had funked the sacrifice it would have been on his conscience all the rest of his life.  As it was, he had made it, or practically made it, and so could take his reward without scruple.

He put this plainly before Olivia when at last she appeared.  She came slowly through the hail from the direction of the dining-room, a blank-book and a pencil in her hand.

“I’m making an inventory,” she explained.  “You know that everything will have to be sold?”

He ignored this to hurry to his account of the interview with Guion.  It had been brief, he said, and in a certain sense unsatisfactory.  He laid stress on his regret that her father should have seen fit to decline his offer—­that’s what it amounted to—­but he pointed out to her that that bounder Davenant, who had doubtless counseled this refusal, would now be the victim of his own wiles.  He had overreached himself.  He had taken one of those desperate risks to which the American speculative spirit is so often tempted—­and he had pushed it too far.  He would lose everything now, and serve him right!

“I’ve made my offer,” he went on, in an injured tone, “and they’ve thrown it out.  I really can’t do more, now, can I?”

“You know already how I feel about that.”

They were still standing.  He had been too eager to begin his report to offer her a chair or to take one himself.

“They can’t expect me to repeat it, now, can they?” he hurried on.  “There are limits, by Jove!  I can’t go begging to them—­”

“I don’t think they expect it.”

“And yet, if I don’t, you know—­he’s dished.  He loses his money—­and everything else.”

In putting a slight emphasis on the concluding words he watched her closely.  She betrayed herself to the extent of throwing back her head with a little tilt to the chin.

“I don’t believe he’d consider that being dished.  He’s the sort of man who loses only when he—­flings away.”

“He’s the sort of man who’s a beastly cad.”

He regretted these words as soon as they were uttered, but she had stung him to the quick.  Her next words did so again.

“Then, if so, I hope you won’t find it necessary to repeat the information.  I mistook him for something very high—­very high and noble; and, if you don’t mind, I’d rather go on doing it.”