Instinctively, and without knowing her motive, she answered in the same way, conscious that it was his wish.
“I am very glad to see you back,” she said.
Then he turned to Hicks, and shook hands with more warmth than that ethereal being had expected.
“You see, Hicks,” he said, “I cannot resist flying at once to pay my respects at the shrine of Art—only arrived in London this afternoon, and here I am in full war-paint, with a flower in my coat and my heart in my eyes. What pictures have I to admire? You may as well tell me.”
Hicks laughed in his semi-sad way, and mentioned a few pictures of note, which were carefully remembered by his hearer. Then Trist turned to Brenda and offered her his arm.
“Will you come,” he said, “and have some tea or an ice, or something?”
Brenda appeared to hesitate for a moment, then gave in with that reluctant alacrity which is to be observed when a lady is making a sacrifice of her own inclination.
As they moved away together through the crowded room there was a sudden hush, and succeeding it a louder buzz of expectant conversation. Trist looked over the heads of the people towards the little flower-bedecked platform at the end of the room.
“Ah!” he said; “Crozier is going to sing. Shall we wait? It is a pity to miss Sam Crozier.”
Nevertheless he made no attempt to stop, and they passed through the doorway into a smaller gallery, which was almost deserted.
“I am in luck tonight; everything I have attempted has been a success. So we shall probably find the refreshment-room empty.”
She laughed in a nervous way, and her touch upon his arm wavered.
“We must run the risk,” he continued, “of being talked about; but I must see you alone for a few minutes. It is strange, Brenda, that we are always getting into hot water together.”
“Oh!” she said indifferently, “the risk is not very great. People do not talk much about me. Alice possesses that unfortunate monopoly in our family.”
“That is why I must see you.”
“Yes, … I know.”
They had passed through the smaller room and out of it into a brilliant corridor, whence a broad flight of stairs led up to the refreshment-room.
“There is a sofa halfway up the stairs,” said Trist. “It is a good position, quite out of earshot, and very visible—therefore harmless; let us occupy it!”
When they were seated, Brenda leant back with that air of grave attention which was peculiarly hers, and which, I venture to think, is rarely met with in women.
“When,” said Trist in a smooth and even tone, “I got back to town, I figuratively tore my hair, and said to myself: ‘Where shall I find Brenda—where shall I find Brenda tonight?’ I took a hansom back to my rooms, changed, and then drove to Suffolk Mansions. Mrs. Wylie told me where you were; I gave chase, and … and I caught you.”
The girl turned her face slightly, and her childlike blue eyes sought his with a quaint air of scrutiny.
“When,” she said, “you left Suffolk Mansions this afternoon with Alice, you had no intention of returning to London tonight.”
There was no mistaking the deliberation of her assertion. She was defying him—daring him to deny.
He met her glance for a moment—no longer.
“That,” he confessed airily, after a pause, “is so!”
“And,” continued the girl with more confidence, “since that time your views respecting Alice have become modified or changed in some way, perhaps?”
He moved with some uneasiness, and appeared particularly wishful to avoid encountering her frank gaze. He clasped his two hands around his raised knee, and stared at the carpet with a non-committing silence which was almost Oriental in its density.
“Brenda,” he whispered at length, “I have had an awful scare!”
She drew in a deep breath with a little shivering sound, and moistened her lips—first the lower, and then the upper. There was a momentary gleam of short, pearly teeth, and the red Cupid’s-bow of her mouth reassumed its usual contour of demure self-reliance.
There was a long pause, during which the faint echo of distant applause came to their ears.
“I wonder,” said the girl at length, “how many men would have taken as much trouble as you have taken tonight for the sake of such a trifling affair as a woman’s good name?”
A dull red colour slowly mounted over her white throat to her face—a painful blush of intense shame, which she was too proud to attempt to hide. The deliberation with which she spoke the words, and then held up her burning face that he might see, had he wished, was very characteristic.
Trist himself changed colour, and his firm lips opened as if he were about to reply hastily. He checked himself, however, and they sat through several painful moments without motion.
During that time their two souls merged, as it were, into a complete understanding—so entire, so perfect and faithful, that no spoken words could ever have brought its semblance into existence. He knew that his painful task was now finished, that Brenda now understood his reason for coming back to London at once. Moreover, he was aware that she had divined the cause of his sudden geniality on first arriving at the soirée, and there was no need to tell her that all London could now find out, if it pleased, that the war-correspondent, Theodore Trist, had arrived home from the East that afternoon, and was seen by many in the evening at a public place of entertainment.
But Brenda was not content with divination of motives. It was her evil habit to proceed to analysis, and in this pastime she made a mistake. Trist’s motive in running away, as it were, from the dangerous proximity of a desperate and beautiful woman was clear; and although a large majority of men would, under the circumstances, have had the generosity to do the same, she was pleased to consider this act a most wondrous thing—her reason for doing so being that she was convinced that Trist loved
