“Have you enjoyed your evening?” were the words he found himself saying, though they were far from those he had at heart.  He felt that his smile was ghastly; but, as she seemed not to perceive it, he drew the conclusion that the ghastliness was within.

She answered languidly.  “Yes, so so.  It might have been pleasanter if it hadn’t been for that awful man.”

“Who?  Young Davenant?  I don’t see anything awful about him.”

“I dare say there isn’t, really—­in his place.  He may be only prosy.  However,” she added, more brightly, “it doesn’t matter for once.  Good night, papa dear.  You look tired.  You ought to go to bed.  I’ve seen to the windows in the drawing-room, but I haven’t put out the lights.”

Having kissed him and patted him on the cheek, she turned to go up the stairway.  He allowed her to ascend a step or two.  It was the minute to speak.

“I’m sorry you feel that way about young Davenant.  I rather like him.”

He had not chosen the words.  They came out automatically.  To discuss Davenant offered an excuse for detaining her, while postponing the blow for a few minutes more.

“Oh, men would,” she said, indifferently, without turning round.  “He’s their style.”

“Which is to his discredit?”

“Not to his discredit, but to his disadvantage.  I’ve noticed that what they call a man’s man is generally something of a bore.”

“Davenant isn’t a bore.”

“Isn’t he?  Well, I really didn’t notice in particular.  I only remember that he used to be about here years ago—­and I didn’t like him.  I suppose Drusilla has to be civil to him because he was Cousin Rodney’s ward.”

She had paused on the landing at the angle of the staircase.

“He’s good-looking,” Guion said, in continued effort to interpose the trivial between himself and what he had still to tell her.

“Oh, that sort of Saxon giant type is always good-looking.  Of course.  And dull too.”

“I dare say he isn’t as dull as you think.”

“He might be that, and still remain pretty dull, after the allowances had been made.  I know the type.  It’s awful—­especially in the form of the American man of business.”

“I’m an American man of business myself.”

“Yes; by misadventure.  You’re the business man made, but not born.  By nature you’re a boulevardier, or what the newspapers call a ‘clubman.’  I admire you more than I can say—­everybody admires you—­for making such a success of a work that must always have been uncongenial at the least.”

The opening was obvious.  Nothing could have been more opportune.  Two or three beginnings presented themselves, and as he hesitated, choosing between them, he moistened his lips and wiped the cold perspiration from his brow.  After all, the blessed apathy within him was giving way and going to play him false!  He had a minute of feeling as the condemned man must feel when he catches sight of the guillotine.