Ambrose, deeply moved by gratitude, growled inarticulately. He felt himself young to stand alone against such powerful forces.
Crossing the river, they landed below the big yellow house and applied at the side door for Colina. She had returned from her ride, they were told. They were shown into the library.
In this little room Ambrose had already touched the summit of happiness, and tasted despair. He hated it now. He kept his eyes on the carpet.
Simon was visibly uneasy while they waited. "You think this any good?" he suggested.
"No," said Ambrose bitterly. "I know well enough what I'll get. But
I've got to go through with it before taking the next step."
"John Gaviller live well," said Simon significantly, but without bitterness.
Colina came in with her queenliest air. She had changed her riding habit for clinging white draperies that made her look like a lovely, arrogant saint. Ambrose, raising his sullen eyes to her, experienced a new shock of desire that put the idea of flour out of his head.
To old Simon, Colina inclined her head as gracefully and indifferently as a swan. The grim patriarch became humble under the spell of her white beauty. He fingered his hat nervously. To Ambrose Colina said with subtle scorn meant for his ear alone:
"What is it?"
Ambrose screwed down the clamps of self-control. "I asked for you," he said stolidly, "because I did not know if your father was well enough to talk business. May I see him for five minutes?"