Guion would be glad to see Mr. Davenant, if he would have the kindness
to come in. To give an air of greater naturalness to the
_mise-en-scène_, she took a bit of embroidery from her work-basket, and
began to stitch at it, seating herself near the open window. She was not
without a slight, half-amused sense of lying in ambush, as if some
Biblical voice were saying to her, "Up! for the Lord hath delivered
thine enemy into thine hand."

* * * * *

"My father isn't well," she explained to Davenant, when she had shaken
hands with him and begged him to sit down. "I dare say he may not be
able to go out for two or three days to come."

"So they told me at his office. I was sorry to hear it."

"You've been to his office, then? He told me you were there yesterday.
That's partly the reason why I've ventured to ask you to come in."

She went on with her stitching, turning the canvas first on one side and
then on the other, sticking the needle in with very precise care. He
fancied she was waiting for him to "give himself away" by saying
something, no matter what. Having, however, a talent for silence without
embarrassment, he made use of it, knowing that by means of it he could
force her to resume.

He was not at ease; he was not without misgiving. It had been far from
his expectation to see her on this errand, or, for the matter of that,
on any errand at all. It had never occurred to him that Guion could
speak to her of a transaction so private, so secret, as that proposed