fell into a pleasant dreamy state in which she seemed to be the companion of those giant men, of their own lineage, at any rate, and the insignificant present moment was put to shame. That magnificent ghostly head on the canvas, surely, never beheld all the trivialities of a Sunday afternoon, and it did not seem to matter what she and this young man said to each other, for they were only small people.
‘This is a copy of the first edition of the poems,’ she continued, without considering the fact that Mr Denham was still occupied with the manuscript, ‘which contains several poems that have not been reprinted, as well as corrections.’ She paused for a minute, and then went on, as if these spaces had all been calculated.
‘That lady in blue is my great-grandmother, by Millington. Here is my uncle’s walking-stick—he was Sir Richard Warburton, you know, and rode with Havelock to the Relief of Lucknow.3 And then, let me see—oh, that’s the original Alardyce, 1697, the founder of the family fortunes, with his wife. Some one gave us this bowl the other day because it has their crest and initials. We think it must have been given them to celebrate their silver wedding-day.’
Here she stopped for a moment, wondering why it was that Mr Denham said nothing. Her feeling that he was antagonistic to her, which had lapsed while she thought of her family possessions, returned so keenly that she stopped in the middle of her catalogue and looked at him. Her mother, wishing to connect him reputably with the great dead, had compared him with Mr Ruskin; and the comparison was in Katharine’s mind, and led her to be more critical of the young man than was fair, for a young man paying a call in a tail-coat is in a different element altogether from a head seized at its climax of expressiveness, gazing immutably from behind a sheet of glass, which was all that remained to her of Mr Ruskin. He had a singular face—a face built for swiftness and decision rather than for massive contemplation; the forehead broad, the nose long and formidable, the lips clean-shaven and at once dogged and sensitive, the cheeks lean, with a deeply running tide of red blood in them. His eyes, expressive now of the usual masculine impersonality and authority, might reveal more subtle emotions under favourable circumstances, for they were large, and of a clear, brown colour—they seemed unexpectedly to hesitate and speculate; but Katharine only looked at him to wonder whether his face would not have come nearer the standard of her dead heroes if it had been adorned with side-whiskers. In his spare build and thin, though healthy, cheeks, she saw tokens of an angular and acrid soul. His voice, she noticed, had a slight vibrating or creaking sound in it, as he laid down the manuscript and said:
‘You must be very proud of your family, Miss Hilbery.’
‘Yes, I am,’ Katharine answered, and she added, ‘Do you think there’s anything wrong in that?’
‘Wrong? How should it be wrong? It must be a bore, though, showing your things to visitors,’ he added reflectively.
‘Not if the visitors like them.’
‘Isn’t it difficult to live up to your ancestors?’ he proceeded.
‘I dare say I shouldn’t try to write poetry,’ Katharine replied.
‘No. And that’s what I should hate. I couldn’t bear my grandfather to cut me out. And, after all,’ Denham went on, glancing round him satirically, as Katharine thought, ‘it’s not your grandfather only. You’re cut out all the way round. I suppose you come of one of the most distinguished families in England. There are the Warburtons and the Mannings—and you’re related to the Otways, aren’t you? I read it all in some magazine,’ he added.
‘The Otways are my cousins,’ Katharine replied.
‘Well,’ said Denham, in a final tone of voice, as if his argument were proved.
‘Well,’ said Katharine, ‘I don’t see that you’ve proved anything.’
Denham smiled, in a peculiarly provoking way. He was amused and gratified to find that he had the power to annoy his oblivious, supercilious hostess, if he could not impress her; though he would have preferred to impress her.
He sat silent, holding the precious little book of poems unopened in his hands, and Katharine watched him, the melancholy or contemplative expression deepening in her eyes as her annoyance faded. She appeared to be considering many things. She had forgotten her duties.
‘Well,’ said Denham again, suddenly opening the little book of poems, as though he had said all that he meant to say or could, with propriety, say. He turned over the pages with great decision, as if he were judging the book in its entirety, the printing and paper and binding, as well as the poetry, and then, having satisfied himself of its good or bad quality, he placed it on the writing-table, and examined the malacca caned with the gold knob which had belonged to the soldier.
‘But aren’t you proud of your family?’ Katharine demanded.
‘No,’ said Denham. ‘We’ve never done anything to be proud of—unless you count paying one’s bills a matter for pride.’
‘That sounds rather dull,’ Katharine remarked.
‘You would think us horribly dull,’ Denham agreed.
‘Yes, I might find you dull, but I don’t think I should find you ridiculous,’ Katharine added, as if Denham had actually brought that charge against her family.
‘No—because we’re not in the least ridiculous. We’re a respectable middle-class family, living at Highgate.4
‘We don’t live at Highgate, but we’re middle class too, I suppose.’
Denham merely smiled, and replacing the malacca cane on the rack, he drew a sword from its ornamental sheath.
‘That belonged to Clive,e so we say,’ said Katharine, taking up her duties as hostess again automatically.
‘Is it a lie?’ Denham inquired.
‘It’s a family tradition. I don’t know that we can prove it.’
‘You see, we don’t have traditions in our family,’ said Denham.
‘You sound very dull,’ Katharine remarked, for the second time.
