it—­to recapture some of his old elegance as a host.  To this Ashley lent himself with entire good-will, taking Guion’s timid claim for recognition as part of the new heaven and the new earth under process of construction.  In this greatly improved universe Olivia, too, acquired in her lover’s eyes a charm, a dignity, a softened grace beyond anything he had dreamed of.  If she seemed older, graver, sadder perhaps, the change was natural to one who had passed through trials so sordid and so searching.  A month of marriage, a month of England, would restore all her youth and freshness.

Nevertheless he was glad to be alone with Madame de Melcourt.  It was the moment he had waited for, the moment of paying some fitting tribute to her generosity.  He had said little of it hitherto, not wanting, as he put it, “to drag it in by the hair of its head.”  He knew an opportunity would arise; and it had arisen.

It was the sort of thing he could have done better had he not been haunted by the Englishman’s fear of being over-demonstrative.  He was easily capable of turning a nice little speech.  Apart from the fear of transgressing the canons of negative good form he would have enjoyed turning one.  As it was, he assumed a stammer and a drawl, jerking out a few inarticulate phrases of which the lady could distinguish only “so awfully good of you” and “never forget your jolly kindness.”  This being masculine, soldier-like, and British, he was hurt to notice an amused smile on the Marquise’s lips.  He could have sworn that she felt the speech inadequate to the occasion.  She would probably have liked it better had it been garnished with American flourishes or French ornamentation.  “She’s taking me for a jolly ass,” he said to himself, and reddened hotly.

In contrast to his deliberate insufficiency the old lady’s thin voice was silvery and precise.  Out of some bit of obscure wilfulness, roused by his being an Englishman, she accentuated her Parisian affectations.

“I’m very much delighted, Col-on-el,” she said, giving the military title its three distinct French syllables, “but you must not think me better than I am.  I’m very fond of my niece—­and of her father.  After all, they stand nearer to me than any one else in the world.  They’re all I’ve got of my very own.  In any case, they should have had the money some day—­when I—­that is, I’d made my will n’est-ce pas?  But what matters a little sooner or a little later?  And I want my niece to be happy.  I want a great many things; but when I’ve sifted them all, I think I want that more than anything else.”

Ashley bowed.  “We shall always feel greatly indebted—­” he began, endeavoring to be more elegant than in his words of a few minutes earlier.

“I want her to be happy, Col-on-el.  She deserves it.  She’s a noble creature, with a heart of gold and a spirit of iron.  And she loves me, I think.”

“I know she does, by Jove!”