An hour may have passed in this condition of dull suspense, when he was
startled by the tinkle of his desk telephone. It was with some effort
that he leaned forward to answer the call. Not that he was afraid--now;
he only shrank from the necessity of doing anything.

"Mr. Davenant would like to see you," came the voice of the stenographer
from the anteroom.

There was nothing to reply but, "Ask Mr. Davenant to come in." He
uttered the words mechanically. He had not thought of Davenant since he
talked with Olivia on the stairs--a conversation that now seemed a
curiously long time ago.

"I hope I'm not disturbing you, Mr. Guion," the visitor said,
apologetically, with a glance at the letters on the desk.

"Not at all, my dear fellow," Guion said, cordially, from force of
habit, offering his hand without rising from the revolving chair. "Sit
down. Have a cigar. It's rather a sharp morning for the time of year."

The use of the conventional phrases of welcome helped him to emerge
somewhat from his state of apathy. Davenant declined the cigar, but
seated himself near the desk, in one of the round-backed office chairs.
Not being a man easily embarrassed by silences, he did not begin to
speak at once, and during the minute his hesitation lasted Guion
bethought him of Olivia's remark, "That sort of Saxon-giant type is
always good-looking." Davenant _was_ good-looking, in a clear-skinned,
clear-eyed way. Everything about him spoke of straight-forwardness and
strength, tempered perhaps by the boyish quality inseparable from fair
hair, a clean, healthily ruddy complexion, and a direct blue glance that