The tone drew Davenant’s eyes to her again, not in scrutiny, but for the pleasure it gave him to see her delicate features suffused with a glow of unexpected softness.  It was unexpected, because her bearing had always conveyed to him, even in the days when he was in love with her, an impression of very refined, very subtle haughtiness.  It seemed to make her say, like Marie Antoinette to Madame Vigee-Lebrun:  “They would call me arrogant if I were not a queen.”  The assumption of privilege and prerogative might be only the inborn consciousness of distinction, but he fancied it might be more effective for being tempered.  Not that it was overdone.  It was not done at all.  If the inner impulse working outward poised a neat, classic head too loftily, or shot from gray eyes, limpid and lovely in themselves, a regard that was occasionally too imperious, Olivia Guion was probably unaware of these effects.  With beauty by inheritance, refinement by association, and taste and “finish” by instinct, it was possible for her to engage with life relatively free from the cumbrous impedimenta of self-consciousness.  It was because Davenant was able to allow for this that his judgment on her pride of manner, exquisite though it was, had never been more severe; none the less, it threw a new light on his otherwise slight knowledge of her character to note the faint blush, the touch of gentleness, with which she hinted her love for her future husband.  He had scarcely believed her capable of this kind of condescension.

He called it condescension because he saw, or thought he saw, in her approaching marriage, not so much the capture of her heart as the fulfilment of her ambitions.  He admitted that, in her case, there was a degree to which the latter would imply the former, since she was the sort of woman who would give her love in the direction in which her nature found its fitting outlet.  He judged something from what Drusilla Fane had said, as they were driving toward Tory Hill that evening.

“Olivia simply must marry a man who’ll give her something to do besides sitting round and looking handsome.  With Rupert Ashley she’ll have the duties of a public, or semi-public, position.  He’ll keep her busy, if it’s only opening bazars and presenting prizes at Bisley.  The American men who’ve tried to marry her have wanted to be her servants, when all the while she’s been waiting for a master.”

Davenant understood that, now that it was pointed out to him, though the thought would not have come to him spontaneously.  She was the strong woman who would yield only to a stronger man.  Colonel Ashley might not be stronger than she in intellect or character, but he had done some large things on a large field, and was counted an active force in a country of forceful activities.  There might be a question as to whether he would prove to be her master, but he would certainly never think of being her slave.

“What are you going to do, Henry, when the gallant stranger carries off Olivia, a fortnight hence?”