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."
"I'm sorry you know I think it. Since it affects you so deeply—"
"It affects me deeply to see you can be unjust."
"I'm more than unjust. I'm—well you can fancy what I am, when I say that I know some one who thinks you're more than half in love with this fellow—as it is."