“It’s a very sensible way at all times.  And I hear you’re carrying Henry off with you to England.”

Ashley shrugged his shoulders.  “Going the whole hog.  What?  Had to make the offer.  Olivia couldn’t leave him behind.  Anything that will make her happy—­”

“Will make you happy.”

“That’s about the size of it.”

Having locked the last drawer and put out the desk light, Temple led his guest down the long gallery and across the Yard to the house on Charlesbank.  Here Ashley pursued kindred themes in the company of Mrs. Fane, finding himself alone with her at tea.  He was often alone with her at tea, her father having no taste for this form of refreshment, while her mother found reasons for being absent.

“Queer old cove, your governor,” Ashley observed, stretching himself comfortably before the fire.  The blaze of logs alone lit up the room.

“Is that why you seem to have taken a fancy to him?”

“I like to hear him gassing.  Little bit like the Bible, don’t you know.”

“He’s very fond of the Bible.”

“Seems to think a lot of that chap—­your governor.”

A nod supposed to indicate the direction of the State of Michigan enabled her to follow his line of thought.

“He does.  There’s something rather colossal about the way he’s dropped out—­”

“A jolly sight too colossal.  Makes him more important than if he’d stayed on the spot and fought the thing to a finish.”

“Fought what thing to a finish?”

He was sorry to have used the expression.  “Oh, there’s still a jolly lot to settle up, you know.”

“But I thought everything was arranged—­that you’d accepted the situation.”

He stretched himself more comfortably before the fire.  “We’d a row,” he said, suddenly.

“A row?  What kind of a row?”

“A street row—­just like two hooligans.  He struck me.”

“Rupert!” She half sprang up.  “He—­”

Ashley swung round in his chair.  He was smiling.

“Oh, I beg your pardon,” she cried, in confusion.  “I can’t think what made me call you that.  I never do—­never.  It was the surprise—­and the shock—­”

“That’s all right,” he assured her.  “I often call you Drusilla when I’m talking to Olivia.  I don’t see why we shouldn’t—­we’ve always been such pals—­and we’re going to be a kind of cousins—­”

“Tell me about Peter.”

“Oh, there’s nothing much that stands telling.  We were two idiots—­two silly asses.  I insulted him—­and he struck out.  I called him a cad—­I believe I called him a damned cad.”

“To his face?”

“To his nose.”

“Oh, you shouldn’t have done that.”

“And he got mad, by Jove!  Oh, it didn’t last.  We pulled off in a second or two.  We saw we were two idiots—­two kids.  It wasn’t worth getting on one’s high horse about—­or attempting to follow it up—­it was too beastly silly for heroics—­except that—­that he—­”