Ashley felt sick. He had never in his life felt such repulsion as toward what seemed to him this facile, theatrical remorse. If Guion was really contrite, if he really wanted to relieve the world of his presence, he could blow his brains out. Ashley had known, or known of, so many who had resorted to this ready remedy for a desperate plight that it seemed simple. His thoughts were too complex, however, for immediate expression, and, before he could decide what to respond, Guion said:
"Why don't you give him a chance?"
Ashley was startled. "Chance? What chance? Who?"
"Davenant."
Ashley grasped the back of his chair as though about to spring up. "What's he want a chance for? Chance for what?"
"I might have said: 'Why don't you give her a chance?' She's half in love with him—as it is."
"That's a lie. That's an infernal lie."
Ashley was on his feet. He pushed the chair from him, though he still grasped it. He seemed to need it for support. Guion showed no resentment, continuing to speak with feverish quiet.
"I think you'll find that the whole thing is predestined, Ashley. Davenant's coming to my aid is what you might call a miracle. I don't like to use the expression—it sounds idiotic—and canting—and all that—but, as a matter of fact, he came—as an answer to prayer."
Ashley gave a snort of impatience. Guion warmed to his subject, dragging himself farther up on the couch and throwing the coverlet from his knees.