“You said yesterday, Colonel, that you’d like to pay me back the money I’ve advanced to Mr. Guion.  I’d just as soon you wouldn’t, you know.”

Ashley deigned no answer.  The tramp went on in silence broken only by distant voices or a snatch of song from a students’ club-house near the river.  Somewhere in the direction of Brookline a locomotive kept up a puffing like the beating of a pulse.

“I don’t need that money,” Davenant began again.  “There’s more where it came from.  I shall be out after it—­from to-morrow on.”

Ashley’s silence was less from rudeness than from self-restraint.  All his nerves were taut with the need to visit his troubles on some one’s head.  A soldiering life had not accustomed him to indefinite repression of his irritable impulses, and now after two or three days of it he was at the limit of his powers.  It was partly because he knew his patience to be nearly at an end that he wanted to be alone.  It was also because he was afraid of the blind fury with which Davenant’s mere presence inspired him.  While he expressed this fury to himself in epithets of scorn, he was aware, too, that there were shades of animosity in it for which he had no ready supply of terms.  Such exclamatory fragments as forced themselves up through the troubled incoherence of his thoughts were of the nature of “damned American,” “vulgar Yankee,” “insolent bounder,” rendering but inadequately the sentiments of a certain kind of Englishman toward his fancied typical American, a crafty Colossus who accomplishes everything by money and brutal strength.  Had there been nothing whatever to create a special antagonism between them, Ashley’s feeling toward Davenant would still have been that of a civilized Jack-the-Giant-Killer toward a stupendous, uncouth foe.  It would have had elements in it of fear, jealousy, even of admiration, making at its best for suspicion and neutrality, and at its worst for....  But Davenant spoke again.

“I’d a great deal rather, Colonel, that—­”

The very sound of his voice, with its harsh consonants and its absurd repetitions of the military title, grated insufferably on Ashley’s ear.  He was beyond himself although he seemed cool.

“My good fellow, I don’t care a hang what you’d a great deal rather.”

Ashley lit a fresh cigarette with the end of the old one, throwing the stump into the river almost across Davenant’s face, as the latter walked the nearer to the railing.

The American turned slightly and looked down.  The action, taken in conjunction with his height and size and his refusal to be moved, intensified Ashley’s rage, which began now to round on himself.  Even the monotonous tramp-tramp of their footsteps, as the Embankment became more deserted, got on his nerves.  It was long before Davenant made a new attempt to fulfil his mission.

“In saying what I said just now,” he began, in what he tried to make a reasonable tone, “I’ve no ax to grind for myself.  If Miss Guion—­”