"I've made my offer," he went on, in an injured tone, "and they've thrown it out. I really can't do more, now, can I?"
"You know already how I feel about that."
They were still standing. He had been too eager to begin his report to offer her a chair or to take one himself.
"They can't expect me to repeat it, now, can they?" he hurried on. "There are limits, by Jove! I can't go begging to them--"
"And yet, if I don't, you know--he's dished. He loses his money--and everything else."
In putting a slight emphasis on the concluding words he watched her closely. She betrayed herself to the extent of throwing back her head with a little tilt to the chin.
"I don't believe he'd consider that being dished. He's the sort of man who loses only when he--flings away."
"He's the sort of man who's a beastly cad."
He regretted these words as soon as they were uttered, but she had stung him to the quick. Her next words did so again.
"Then, if so, I hope you won't find it necessary to repeat the information. I mistook him for something very high--very high and noble; and, if you don't mind, I'd rather go on doing it."
She swept him with a look such as he knew she must be capable of giving, though he had never before seen it. The next second she had slipped between the portières into the hail. He heard her pause there.
It was inevitable that Guion's words should return to him: "Half in love with him--as it is."
"That's rot," he assured himself. He had only to call up the image of Davenant's hulking figure and heavy ways to see what rot it was. He himself was not vain of his appearance; he had too much to his credit to be obliged to descend to that; but he knew he was a distinguished man, and that he looked it. The woman who could choose between him and Davenant would practically have no choice at all. That seemed to him conclusive.
Nevertheless, it was with a view to settling this question beyond resurrection that he followed her into the hall. He found her standing with the note-book still in her hand.
He came softly behind her and looked over her shoulder, his face close to hers. She could feel his breath on her cheek, but she tried to write.
"I'm sorry I said what I did," he whispered.
She stayed her pencil long enough to say: "I hope you're still sorrier for having thought it."