She swept him with a look such as he knew she must be capable of giving, though he had never before seen it.  The next second she had slipped between the portieres into the hail.  He heard her pause there.

It was inevitable that Guion’s words should return to him:  “Half in love with him—­as it is.”

“That’s rot,” he assured himself.  He had only to call up the image of Davenant’s hulking figure and heavy ways to see what rot it was.  He himself was not vain of his appearance; he had too much to his credit to be obliged to descend to that; but he knew he was a distinguished man, and that he looked it.  The woman who could choose between him and Davenant would practically have no choice at all.  That seemed to him conclusive.

Nevertheless, it was with a view to settling this question beyond resurrection that he followed her into the hall.  He found her standing with the note-book still in her hand.

He came softly behind her and looked over her shoulder, his face close to hers.  She could feel his breath on her cheek, but she tried to write.

“I’m sorry I said what I did,” he whispered.

She stayed her pencil long enough to say:  “I hope you’re still sorrier for having thought it.”

“I’m sorry you know I think it.  Since it affects you so deeply—­”

“It affects me deeply to see you can be unjust.”

“I’m more than unjust.  I’m—­well you can fancy what I am, when I say that I know some one who thinks you’re more than half in love with this fellow—­as it is.”

“Is that papa?”

“I don’t see that it matters who it is.  The only thing of importance is whether you are or not.”

“If you mean that as a question, I shall have to let you answer it yourself.”

“Would you tell me if—­if you were?”

“What would be the use of telling you a thing that would make you unhappy and that I couldn’t help?”

“Am I to understand, then, that you are half in love with him?”

She continued the effort to write.

“I think I’ve a right to press that question,” he resumed.  “Am I, or am I not, to understand—­”

She turned slowly.  Her face was flushed, her eyes were misty.

“You may understand this,” she said, keeping her voice as much under control as possible, “you may understand this, that I don’t know whom I’m in love with, or whether or not I’m in love with any one.  That’s the best I can say.  I’m sorry, Rupert—­but I don’t think it’s altogether my fault.  Papa’s troubles seem to have transported me into a world where they neither marry nor are given in marriage—­where the whole subject is alien to—­”

“But you said,” he protested, bitterly, “no longer ago than yesterday that you—­loved me.”

“And I suppose I do.  I did in Southsea.  I did—­right up to the minute when I learned what papa—­and I—­had been doing all these years—­and that if the law had been put in force—­You see, that’s made me feel as if I were benumbed—­as if I were frozen—­or dead.  You mustn’t blame me too much—­”