Wearing a large hat _à la_ Princesse de Lamballe and carrying a
long-handled sunshade which she held daintily, like a Watteau
shepherdess holding a crook, Drusilla had an air of refined,
eighteenth-century dash. Knowing the probability that she disturbed some
poignant bit of conversation, she proceeded to take command, stepping up
to Olivia with a hasty kiss. "Hello, you dear thing!" Turning to Ashley,
she surveyed him an instant before offering her hand. "So you've got
here! How fit you look! What sort of trip did you have, and how did you
leave your people? And, oh, by the way, this is Mr. Davenant."

Davenant, who had been paying his respects to Miss Guion, charged
forward, with hand outstretched and hearty: "Happy to meet you, Colonel.
Glad to welcome you to our country."

"Oh!"

Ashley snapped out the monosyllable in a dry, metallic voice pitched
higher than his usual key. The English softening of the vowel sound, so
droll to the American ear, was also more pronounced than was customary
in his speech, so that the exclamation became a sharp "A-ow!"

Feeling his greeting to have been insufficient, Davenant continued,
pumping up a forced rough-and-ready cordiality. "Heard so much about
you, Colonel, that you seem like an old friend. Hope you'll like us.
Hope you'll enjoy your stay."

"Oh, indeed? I don't know, I'm sure."

Ashley's glance shifted from Drusilla to Olivia as though asking in some
alarm who was this exuberant bumpkin in his Sunday clothes who had