It was going from manner to manner, from habit to habit, and in the minds of these London spectators there surely floated dim images of the traditional kilts, the burring speech, the grouse, the canniness, the oatmeal — all the elements of a romantic Scotland.
SIXTY MILES AN HOUR
The painter felt a slight tremor run through his limbs, then, with a toss of his head, he jumped into the compartment in which the lad was seated, saying to himself: “Humph! it smells of odor femina here…”
Brandon cast another glance at the lady and noticed that her appearance was quite distinguished, and that her apparel denoted elegance and good taste.
Employing then a simple ruse, but which is nearly always successful, the artist closed the door and put his head out of the window, so as to deter any other travellers from coming into his compartment.
His heart was beating with force, and he was not quite reassured until he heard the signal given to start.
When the train began slowly to leave the station, the painter left the window and turned towards the lady, who was seated in the opposite corner of the carriage.
He noticed, with some vexation, that instead of looking towards him, she had half turned round and was looking out of the window on her side at the network of lines, and was apparently taking a great interest in the men who were shunting the carriages.
At all events the London North Western Railway is not like some other lines, and does not keep the passengers in semi-darkness. The lamps give a fairly bright light, and enable travellers to see one another, and even tolerably well. Brandon was therefore able to take stock of the lady, and make up his mind as to what her social condition was.
He noticed that she was rather a little woman, but exceedingly well-made, as he was able to see, for she had not put on any shawls or wraps — the weather indeed being too warm to render them necessary — and she wore a tightly fitting tailor-made costume which showed off her figure to perfection. She had crossed one leg over the other, and thus displayed a neat foot and a pretty ankle, the latter encased in openwork, black, silk stockings. On her head was a coquettish gray felt hat, and fastened round it was a large white veil, which completely covered, though it did not conceal altogether, the lady's features.
Brandon was able to notice her face tolerably well, and saw that she had a very pretty mouth, though he judged from the lips that they were not only eminently kissable, but would return a kiss with interest, or indeed, he thought, give even a warmer proof of affection if their owner wished it and was enamoured of a man. The rather wide nostrils of the delicately tip-tilted nose seemed to confirm this theory. The hair was wavy, and of that rich chestnut brown which always grows in profusion — and not only on the head, as Brandon was well aware, for he had seen many nude models in the course of his artistic career. The eyes, which, as we have said, were very bright, had long eyelashes which served to intensify the sudden glances which were shot from behind them. On the whole Brandon came to the conclusion that he had seldom seen a prettier little woman.
“To what class of society does this woman belong?” thought the painter, vexed at not attracting her attention. “She is rich, undoubtedly, and her exterior as far as I can judge, denotes a woman of the world… but of which world? Is she a great lady? No, she would not travel alone… A rich bourgeoise? It may be, but I doubt it, for she has in her manners a certain air of distinction and independence which is almost exclusively the appendage of artistes… Yes, she must be an artiste… or else perhaps a kept-woman…
Before Brandon could make up his mind on these points the train had glided rapidly through the suburbs of London, and having once shaken off «villadom» was speeding along at a rate which would not cease increasing till it exceeded sixty miles an hour, towards Crewe, the first stopping-place on this long journey.
The painter was not one of those enterprising Don Juans who cannot find themselves in tete-a-tete with a woman without feeling an imperative desire to effect her conquest, but he was fond of adventure, of the mysterious and unexpected everything that makes a great impression on the imagination.
If, instead of hiding her features beneath an almost impenetrable veil, the lady with whom he found himself had allowed him to see her face, it is probable that he would have limited himself to the exchange of a few polite words with her without seeking to push his gallantry any further.
But the indifference with which she seemed to regard him piqued his pride, and he determined to oblige her to take notice of him.
Like most artists, Brandon sometimes neglected parliamentary forms, and spoke out with a degree of familiarity rather unusual in aristocratic drawing-rooms.
Determined to force his travelling companion to answer him, he got up, and going right up to her, he took off his cap, and bowing low, said to her:
“Will you be good enough, Madam, not to be offended at the request I am about to make to you?…”
The lady, who had turned briskly round when the painter advanced towards her, looked him in the face, and answered rather haughtily:
“I have not authorized you to speak to me, Sir.
“That is true, and I humbly confess my fault.
“Well, what is it you wish?”
“Pray excuse the boldness of an artist, who has the misfortune much oftener to frequent studios than drawing-rooms.”
“Ah! you are an artist?” said the lady in an almost amiable tone.
“Yes, Madam; Brandon, a painter no doubt unworthy to reproduce the divine features which you so obstinately persist in hiding beneath that ugly lace armour;” replied the painter, boldly, taking his seat in front of the lady.
“Your name is known to me, Sir, and better still, some of your works of art,” said the lady, inclining her head graciously, “and I think you calumniate yourself when you make yourself so humble.”
While the lady was speaking, the artist could notice the brilliant white of her neck, the opulent charms of her breast, the admirable contour of her chin, in which a voluptuous dimple nestled, and the seductive tone of her voice.
Nothing more was required to set fire to him, as is vulgarly said.
“Pray, Madam, do not treat me with so much indulgence,” he rejoined; “you would be authorizing me to give expression to my gratitude, and then…
“Oh! then, you might be wanting in respect to me?”
“Oh! Madam…”
“Let us come back to your request. What was it you were about to ask me?
“Pardon me, I pray you; the emotion you cause me is so great that I have quite forgotten what I wanted.”
“It was therefore but of very slight importance… If you can see no objection, Sir, I will try to go to sleep, for I feel tired; good night…”
The lady took up a cloak which was lying on the seat beside her, and throwing it round her so as to cover all the lower part of her face, she rested her head against one of the divisions which separate the seats, and closed her eyes.
Brandon bit his lips till they bled.
This sudden end of an adventure which had begun by giving him smiling hopes, wounded his vanity to the quick, and far from giving up the game, he determined to stake his all.
During about twenty minutes, the painter tried to renew hostilities with some serious chances of success.
The lady slept or appeared to sleep.
Her breathing was slow and regular, and from her whole person there emanated a fragrant odour of violets,
