Captain Huston’s military duties were not such as occupied more than a few hours of the week, and during the rest of his existence he was actively idle. His mind was fallow; he was totally without resource, without occupation, without interest. There is no man on earth to beat the ordinary British military officer in downright futile idleness. The Spanish Customhouse official runs a close race with the Italian innkeeper in this matter, but both enjoy their laziness, and are never bored. When our commissioned defender is naturally of an idle turn of mind, he is intensely bored; his existence is one long yawn, and the faculty of enjoyment dies a natural death within his soul. I can think of no more despicable sample of humanity than a man who cannot find himself something to do under all circumstances, and in all places; and surely no one can blame his Satanic majesty for a proverbial readiness to supply the deficiency from his own store of easy tasks.
If Alice Gilholme had searched through the entire army-list, she could scarcely have found a man less suitable to be her husband than Captain Huston. Petty, shortsighted jealousy on his part, vapid coquetry on hers, soon led to the inevitable end, and the result was thrown upon the hands of Brenda and Mrs. Wylie with easy nonchalance by the spoilt child of society.
It was no sudden disillusionment for Brenda, but merely one more wretched curtain torn aside to display the hideous reality of human existence and human selfishness. No thought of complaint entered the girl’s head. With a pathetic silence she simply applied herself to the task set before her, with no great hope of reaching a satisfactory solution.
Before the three ladies had spoken further upon the subject chiefly occupying their thoughts, the drawing-room door was thrown open, and with studied grace William Hicks crossed the threshold.
The hat that he carried daintily in his left hand was not quite the same in contour as those worn by his contemporaries. To ensure this peculiarity, the artist was forced to send to Paris for his headgear, where he paid a higher price and received an inferior article. But the distinction conferred by a unique hat is practically immeasurable and without price. Mr. Hicks’ gloves were also out of the common; likewise his strangely-cut coat and misshapen continuations.
The tout ensemble was undoubtedly pleasing. It must have been so, because he was obviously satisfied, and the artistic eye is the acknowledged arbitrator in matters of outward adornment, whether it be of mantelshelves or human forms divine.
The three ladies turned to greet him with that ready feminine smile which is ever there to lubricate matters when the social wheel may squeak or grate.
“Oh, bother!” whispered Brenda to herself, as she held out her hand.
“What?” exclaimed Hicks, with languid surprise and visibly deep pleasure. “Mrs. Huston! I am delighted. When I left my studio and plunged into all this mist and gloom this afternoon, I never thought that both would be dispelled so suddenly.”
“Is it dispelled?” asked Mrs. Huston, glancing playfully towards the window.
“In here it is. But then,” he added, as he shook hands with Mrs. Wylie, “there is never any mist or gloom in this room.”
With a pleasant laugh, as if deprecating his own folly, he turned to greet Brenda, who had stood near the mantelpiece with her gloved hand extended. Then his manner changed. Moreover, it was a distinctly advantageous alteration. One would have imagined, from the expression of his handsome but thoroughly weak face, that if there was anybody on earth whom he respected and admired, almost as much as he respected and admired William Hicks, that person was Brenda.
For her he had no neatly-turned pleasantry—no easy, infectious laugh.
“I did not know you were coming home, Mrs. Huston,” he said, turning again to that lady. Then his social training enabled him to detect unerringly that he might be on a dangerous trail, and with ready skill he turned aside. “This is not the best time of year,” he continued, “to return to your native shores. Personally I am rather disgusted with the shore in question, but we must surely hope for some more sunshine before we finally bid farewell to the orb of day for the winter. We poor artists are the chief sufferers, I am sure.”
“At all events,” put in Mrs. Wylie easily, “you take it upon yourselves to grumble most. There is always something to displease you—the want of daylight, the scarcity of buyers, or the hopeless stupidity of the hanging-committee.”
“I think I confine my observations to the weather,” murmured Hicks, gazing sadly into the fire, towards which bourne Brenda’s glance was also apparently directed, for she presently pressed the glowing coals down with the sole of her dainty boot, and quite lost the studied poesy of the artist’s expression. “I am, I think,” he continued humbly, “independent of buyers and hanging-committees. I do not exhibit at Burlington House, and you know I never sell.”
“Indeed,” said Mrs. Huston, with slight interest, for the elder lady had turned away and was busy with her second cup of tea, which was almost cold.
“No,” answered Hicks, with the eagerness that comes to egotistical talkers when they are sure of a new listener. “No. I don’t care to enter into competition with men who depend more upon conventional training than natural talent. The Royal Academy is only a human institution, and, perhaps, it is only natural that their own students should be favoured before all others. I am not an Academy student, you know!”
Mrs. Huston contented herself with no more compromising affirmative than a gracious inclination of the head. It is just possible that, fresh from Ceylon, and consequently deplorably ignorant of artistic affairs as she was, the knowledge that William Hicks was not an Academy student had been denied her. This most lamentable
