nowadays that he had begun to feel vaguely that where there was question of high position—­and he hoped modestly that in his case there was distinctly question of that—­it was time the principle was being established of England for the English.  Nevertheless, he had got so far in his consideration of Drusilla Fane as to ask himself whether she was not, as the widow of a British officer, an Englishwoman to all intents and purposes as well as in the strict letter of the law.  He could not say that he was in love with her; but neither could he say that one of these days he might not be.  If he ever were it would certainly be on the principle of faute de mieux; but many a man has chosen his wife on no better ground than that.

Such criticism as he had to make to her disadvantage he could form there and then in the chapel while they were reading the lessons or chanting the psalms.  She sat two or three rows in front of him, on the other side of the aisle.  There was something about Drusilla in church that suggested a fish out of water.  He had noticed it before.  She was restless, inattentive; she kept turning her head to see who was behind her or at the other end of the pew; she rarely found the places in the prayer-book or knew just when to kneel down; when she did kneel down she sank into an awkward little bunch; every now and then she stifled, or did not stifle, a yawn.

Ashley had a theory that manner in church is the supreme test of the proprieties.  He knew plenty of women who could charm at a dinner or dazzle at a dance, but who displayed their weaknesses at prayer.  All unwitting to herself, poor Drusilla was inviting his final—­or almost final—­judgment on her future, so far at least as he was concerned, for the simple reason that she twitched and sighed and forgot to say the Amens.

And just then his eyes traveled to her neighbor—­a tall young lady, dressed in white, with no color in her costume but a sash of hues trembling between sea-green and lilac.  She was slender and graceful, with that air at once exquisite and unassuming that he had seen in the Englishwoman of his dreams.  Though he could get no more than a side glimpse of her face, he divined that it was pure and that it must be thrown into relief by the heavy coil of coppery-brown hair.  But what he noticed in her first was that which he thought of concerning other women last—­a something holy and withdrawn, a quality of devotion without which he had no conception of real womanhood.  It seemed to be a matter of high courtesy with her not to perceive that the choir-boys sang out of tune or that the sermon was prosy.  In the matter of kneeling he had seen only one woman in his life—­and she the highest in the land—­who did it with this marvelous grace at once dignified and humble.  “It takes old England,” he said to himself, gloatingly, “to make ’em like that—­simple and—­stunning.”