outward poised a neat, classic head too loftily, or shot from gray eyes,
limpid and lovely in themselves, a regard that was occasionally too
imperious, Olivia Guion was probably unaware of these effects. With
beauty by inheritance, refinement by association, and taste and "finish"
by instinct, it was possible for her to engage with life relatively free
from the cumbrous impedimenta of self-consciousness. It was because
Davenant was able to allow for this that his judgment on her pride of
manner, exquisite though it was, had never been more severe; none the
less, it threw a new light on his otherwise slight knowledge of her
character to note the faint blush, the touch of gentleness, with which
she hinted her love for her future husband. He had scarcely believed her
capable of this kind of condescension.

He called it condescension because he saw, or thought he saw, in her
approaching marriage, not so much the capture of her heart as the
fulfilment of her ambitions. He admitted that, in her case, there was a
degree to which the latter would imply the former, since she was the
sort of woman who would give her love in the direction in which her
nature found its fitting outlet. He judged something from what Drusilla
Fane had said, as they were driving toward Tory Hill that evening.

"Olivia simply _must_ marry a man who'll give her something to do
besides sitting round and looking handsome. With Rupert Ashley she'll
have the duties of a public, or semi-public, position. He'll keep her
busy, if it's only opening bazars and presenting prizes at Bisley. The
American men who've tried to marry her have wanted to be her servants,
when all the while she's been waiting for a master."

Davenant understood that, now that it was pointed out to him, though the
thought would not have come to him spontaneously. She was the strong