“What a strange couple they are!” the matron was reflecting, as she looked slowly from one unconscious face to the other.
“There were one or two terrible flashes of lightning,” she said aloud in a conversational way; “I was quite nervous, but the Admiral slept placidly through it all.”
Trist moved slightly, and shook the ash from his pipe over the side.
“Brenda was terrified,” he said resignedly.
“I was startled,” admitted the girl, “that was all. And the result was a very learned discourse on courage, its source and value, by Theo.”
“I always thought,” said he to Mrs. Wylie, in a mildly disappointed tone, “that she was plucky.”
Mrs. Wylie laughed, and then with sudden gravity nodded her head significantly.
“So she is—very plucky.”
“I think,” suggested Brenda, “that it would be better taste, and more natural, perhaps, to discuss me behind my back.”
Trist laughed.
“I never discuss anyone,” he said. “That is a lady’s privilege and monopoly. Men are usually fully occupied in talking about themselves, and have no time to devote to the study of their surroundings.”
“I generally find that men say either too much or too little about themselves,” observed Mrs. Wylie. “There is no medium between the super-egotistical and the hyper-reserved. Among my young men, and I have a great number, there are some who tell me everything, and others who tell me nothing. The former appear to think that the universe revolves round them, that they are superlatively interesting, and that their relations are the same in ratio to the closeness of their connection with the axis of the social world—that is, to themselves. Consequently I hear all sorts of confidences, and many totally pointless stories.”
“Which,” suggested Trist, “never go any further.”
“Which never go any further, because their specific gravity is of such trifling importance that they make absolutely no impression upon the tenderest of sympathetic hearts.”
Brenda, who had been listening in a semi-interested way, now made a remark. She was not a brilliant conversationalist, this thoughtful little person, and rarely contributed anything striking or witty to a general intercourse. Her ideas needed the security of a tête-à-tête to coax them forth.
“I think,” she said to Mrs. Wylie, “that you must be gifted with a wonderful amount of patience, or you would never bother with your young men. The obligation and the pleasure must be all on their side.”
“It is,” put in Trist cynically, “a sort of mother’s agency. We ought to issue a circular for the benefit of provincial parents: ‘Young men’s morals looked after; confidences received and kindly forgotten. Youths without dull female relatives preferred. Address, Mrs. Wylie, Suffolk Mansions, London, and Wyl’s Hall, Wyvenwich.’ ”
Mrs. Wylie laughed comfortably.
“I must confess,” she said, “that the female relatives are a drawback. There are a good many stories to be listened to about hopelessly dull sisters and incapable mothers; but my young men are not so bad on the whole, and I know I do a little good occasionally. Of course there are some who require snubbing at times, and some who are not interesting; but the silent ones are my favourites, and there is only one type of talkative I really object to—a young Scotchman with hard lashless eyes, a square bony jaw, a very small nose, no complexion, and an accent.”
“I know the type,” said Trist; “he has a theory for everything, including life. Is a hard business man, a keen arguer, and never makes a good soldier.”
“Altogether a most pleasing and fascinating young man,” interrupted Brenda, with a low laugh. “You are both terribly cynical, I believe, beneath a gentle suavity. It only comes to the surface when you get together and lay aside the social mask. I never met this ideal Scotchman at your house, Mrs. Wylie.”
“No, my dear,” was the decisive reply, “and I do not think you ever will.”
“You prefer young men who take but do not grab,” suggested Trist.
“Mine,” replied the lady, with tolerant complacency, “are not brilliant youths. Some of them may get in front of the crowd, but they will do so in a quiet and gentlemanly way, without elbowing or pushing too obviously, and without using other men’s shoulders as levers to help themselves forward.”
She looked straight into the young fellow’s face with her pleasantly keen smile, for he was the first and the foremost of her young men, and she was justly proud of him. He had passed beyond the dense mediocrity of the crowd, and stood alone in a place which he had won unaided. He was one of those who said too little—one of the silent ones whom she loved above the others who told her everything. In her cheery, careless way, with all her assumed worldliness, she did a vast deal of good amongst these unattached young men who were in the habit of dropping in during their spare evenings at the cosy little drawing-room on the second-floor of Suffolk Mansions.
There was usually some connecting-link, some vague and distant introduction between the young men and the cheerful, worldly, childless lady who chose to make all waifs and stragglers welcome. These were generally provincial men living in chambers and working out their apprenticeships under the different styles of their different professions. Articled clerks, medical students, art students, somethings in the City, and a journalist or so. She never invited them to come, and so they came when they wanted to, often to find her out, for she was a gay little soul, and then they came again. There was always a box of cigarettes on the mantelpiece, and the broad polished table was invariably littered with the latest magazines, books, and periodicals. Mrs. Wylie was always broad awake, and the Admiral usually fell asleep as soon as the conversation waxed personal.
In the matter of confidences Mrs. Wylie possessed real genius. She forgot things so conveniently, and never smiled when given to understand that some youthful heart was broken for the third time in one season. She never preached and rarely advised, but merely listened
