* * * * *

Some days passed before she felt equal to talking about Davenant again.  This time it was to the tinkling silver, as she and Drusilla Fane sorted spoons and forks at the sideboard in the dismantled dining-room.  Olivia was moved to speak in the desperate hope that one stab from Drusilla—­who might be in a position to deliver it—­would free her from the obsession haunting her.

There had been a long silence, sufficiently occupied, it seemed, in laying out the different sorts and sizes of spoons in rows of a dozen, while Mrs. Fane did the same with the forks.

“Drusilla, did Mr. Davenant ever say anything to you about me?”

She was vexed with herself for the form of her question.  It was not Davenant’s feeling toward her, but toward Drusilla, that she wanted to know.  She was drawing the fire in the wrong place.  Mrs. Fane counted her dozen forks to the end before saying: 

“Why, yes.  We’ve spoken of you.”

Having begun with a mistake, Olivia went on with it.  “Did he say—­anything in particular?”

“He said a good many things, on and off.”

“Some of which might have been—­in particular?”

“All of them, if it comes to that.”

“Why did you never tell me?”

“For one reason, because you never asked me.”

“Have you any idea why I’m asking you now?”

“Not the faintest.  I dare say we sha’n’t see anything more of him for years to come.”

“Did you—­did you—­refuse him?  Did you send him away?”

“Well, that’s one thing I didn’t have to do, thank the Lord.  There was no necessity.  I was afraid at one time that mother might make him propose to me—­she’s terribly subtle in that way, though you mightn’t think it—­but she didn’t.  No; if Peter’s in love with any one, it’s not with me.”

Olivia braced herself to say, “And I hope it’s not with me.”

Drusilla went on counting.

“Did he ever say anything about that?” Olivia persisted.

Drusilla went on counting.  “Eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve.  That’s all of that set.  What a lot of silver you’ve got!  And some of it must have been in the family for thousands of years.  Yes,” she added, in another tone, “yes, he did.  He said he wasn’t.”

Olivia laid down the ladle she was holding with infinite precaution.  She had got the stab she was looking for.  It seemed for a minute as if she was free—­gloatingly free.  He hadn’t cared anything about her after all, and had said so!  She steadied herself by holding to the edge of the sideboard.

Drusilla stooped to the basket of silver standing on the floor, in a seemingly passionate desire for more forks.  By the time she had straightened herself again, Olivia was able to say:  “I’m so glad of that.  You know what his kindness in helping papa has made people think, don’t you?”

But Mrs. Fane astonished her by throwing down her handful of silver with unnecessary violence of clang and saying:  “Look here, Olivia, I’d rather not talk about it any more.  I’ve reasons.  I can’t take a hand in your affairs without being afraid that perhaps—­perhaps—­I—­I—­sha’n’t play the game.”