“He isn’t an old man at all,” Olivia explained, quickly.

“Ca ne fait rien.  His age isn’t the question.  I suppose he lent the money expecting us to pay him back at a handsome rate of interest.”

“No, he didn’t.  That’s just it.  He lent it to us—­out of—­out of—­”

“Yes; out of what?”

“Out of pure goodness,” she said, firmly.

“Fiddle-faddle!  People don’t do things out of pure goodness.  The man who seems to is either a sentimentalist or a knave.  If he’s a sentimentalist, he does it for effect; if he’s a knave, because it helps roguery.  There’s always some ax to grind.”

“I think you’d have to make an exception of Mr. Davenant.”

“Davenant?  Is that his name?  Yes, I believe your papa did tell me so—­the boy Tom Davenant fished out of the slums.”

With some indignation Olivia told the story of Davenant’s birth and adoption.  “So you see,” she went on, “he has goodness in his blood.  There’s no reason why that shouldn’t be inherited as much as—­as insanity—­or a taste for alcohol.”

“Stuff, dear!  The man or the boy, or whatever he is, calculated on getting something better than he gave.  We must simply pay him off and get rid of him.  Noblesse oblige.”

“We may get rid of him, Aunt Vic, but we can never pay him off.”

“He’ll be paid off, won’t he, if we return his loan at an interest of five—­I’m willing to say six—­per cent.?”

Olivia came forward, looking distressed.  “Oh, I hope you won’t, dear Aunt Vic.  I mean about the five or six per cent.  Give him back his money if you will, only give it back in the—­in the princely way in which he let us have it.”

“Well, I call that princely—­six per cent.”

“Oh, please, Aunt Vic!  You’d offend him.  You’d hurt him.  He’s just the sort of big, sensitive creature that’s most easily wounded, and—­”

“Tiens!  You interest me.  Stop fidgeting round the room and come and tell me about him.  Sit down,” she commanded, pointing to the other corner of the sofa.  “There must be a lot I haven’t heard.”

If Olivia hesitated, it was chiefly because of her own eagerness to talk of him, to sing his praises.  Since, however, she must sooner or later learn to do this with self-possession, she fortified herself to begin.  With occasional interruptions from her aunt she told the tale as she understood it, taking as point of departure the evening when Davenant came to dine at Tory Hill, on his return from his travels round the world.

“So there was a time when you didn’t like him,” was Madame de Melcourt’s first comment.

“There was a time when I didn’t understand him.”

“But when you did understand him you changed your mind.”

“I couldn’t help it.”

“And did you change anything more than your—­mind?”

There was so much insinuation in the cracked voice that Olivia colored, in spite of the degree in which she thought herself armed against all surprises.  It was a minute or more before she was prepared with an answer.