“I shouldn’t expect you to do anything, madame, without verifying all I’ve told you.  For the matter of that, it’ll be easy enough.  You’ve only to write to your men of business, or—­which would be better still—­take a trip to America for yourself.”

She threw out her arms with a tragic gesture.  “My good man, I haven’t been in America for forty years.  I nearly died of it then.  What it must be like now—­”

“It wouldn’t be so fine as this, madame, nor so picturesque.  But it would be full of people who’d be fond of you, not for the sou—­but for yourself.”

She did her best to be offended.  “You’re taking liberties, monsieur.  C’est bien american, cela.”

“Excuse me, madame,” he said, humbly.  “I only mean that they are fond of you—­at least, I I know Miss Guion is.  Two nights before I sailed I heard her almost crying for you—­yes, almost crying.  That’s why I came.  I thought I’d come and tell you.  I should think it might mean something to you—­over here so long—­all alone—­to have some one like that—­such a—­such a—­such a wonderful young lady wanting you—­in her trouble—­”

“And such a wonderful young man wanting his money back.  Oh, I’m not blind, monsieur.  I see a great deal more than you think.  I see through and through you.  You fancy you’re throwing dust in my eyes, and you haven’t thrown a grain.  Pouff!  Oh, la, la!  Mais, c’est fini.  As for my niece—­le bon Dieu l’ a bien punie.  For me to step in now would be to interfere with the chastisement of Providence.  Le bon Dieu is always right.  I’ll say that for Him.  Good morning.”  She touched a bell.  “The man will show you to the door.  If you like to stroll about the grounds—­now that you’ve got in—­well, you can.”

With sleeves blowing she sped down the room as if on pinions.  The man-servant waited respectfully.  Davenant stood his ground, hoping for some sign of her relenting.  It was almost over her shoulder that she called back: 

“Where are you staying?”

He told her.

“Stupid place.  You’ll find the Chariot d’Or at Melcourt a great deal nicer.  Simple, but clean.  An old chef of mine keeps it.  Tell him I sent you.  And ask for his poularde au riz.”

XXI

“What do you think of him?”

Ashley’s tone indicated some uncertainty as to what he thought himself.  Indeed, uncertainty was indicated elsewhere than in his tone.  It seemed to hang about him, to look from his eyes, to take form in his person.  Perhaps this was the one change wrought in him by a month’s residence in America.  When he arrived everything had bespoken him a man aggressively positive with the habit of being sure.  His very attitude, now, as he sat in Rodney Temple’s office in the Harvard Gallery of Fine Arts, his hands thrust into his pockets, his legs stretched apart, his hat on the back of his head, suggested one who feels the foundations of the earth to have shifted.