Each looked at the other with the hesitation of men who, meeting, recognise a face, and half await a greeting of some description. In a moment it was too late, and they passed on—one upstairs, the other down, with unconscious symbolism—having exchanged nothing more than that expectant, hesitating stare of mutual recognition and mutual curiosity.
Each was at heart a gentleman, and under other circumstances, in the presence of a third person, or with the view of sparing a hostess anxiety, they would undoubtedly have shaken hands. But here, beneath the eye of none but their God (who, in His wisdom, has purposely planted a tiny seed of divergence in our hearts), they saw no cause for acting that which could, at its best, have been nothing but a semi-truth.
When Trist greeted Mrs. Wylie a few moments later, he detected her glance of anxiety; but it was against his strange principles to take the initiative, so he waited until she might speak.
After a few commonplaces dexterously handled, she suddenly changed her tone.
“Theo,” she said with that abruptness which invariably follows after hesitation on the brink of a difficult subject, “there was a man in this room ten minutes ago who announced his fixed determination of shooting you the very next time you crossed his path.”
The war-correspondent shrugged his shoulders, and turning sharply round, he kicked under the grate a small smoking cinder which had fallen far out into the fender.
“That man’s statements, whether in regard to things past or things future, should be accepted with caution.”
“Then you met him on the stairs?”
“Yes; I met him on the stairs. …”
“And …”
“And he did not shoot,” said Trist with a short laugh as he turned and faced Mrs. Wylie.
Then he did a somewhat remarkable thing—remarkable, that is, for a man who never gave way to a display of the slightest emotion, demonstrating either sorrow or joy, hatred or affection. He took Mrs. Wylie’s two hands within his, and forced her to sit in the deep basket-work chair near the fire with its back towards the window.
Standing before her with his hands thrust into the pockets of his short serge jacket, he looked down at her with quizzical affection.
“Some months ago,” he said, “we made a contract; you are breaking that contract, unless I am very much mistaken. You have allowed yourself to be anxious about me—is that not so?”
The widow smiled bravely up into the grave young face.
“I am afraid,” she began, “… yes, I am afraid you are right. But the anxiety was not wholly on your account.”
Trist turned slowly away. The movement was an excess of caution, for his face was always impenetrable.
“Ah!” he murmured.
“I am very anxious about Alice and Brenda.”
“Ah!” he murmured again, with additional sympathy.
She did not proceed at once, so he leant back in the chair he had assumed, and waited with that peculiar patience which seemed to belong to Eastern lands, and which has been noticed before.
“Theo,” she said at last, “has it never struck you that your position with regard to those two girls is—to say the least of it—peculiar?”
“From a social point of view?”
“Yes.”
“If,” he said in a louder tone, on his defence, as it were, “I were constantly at home, society might have something to say about it. But, as it happens, I am never long in London, and consequently fail to occupy that prominent position in the public esteem or dislike to which my talents undoubtedly entitle me.”
“Fortunately, gossip has not been rife about it.”
“Partly by good fortune, and partly by good management,” corrected Trist. “With a little care, society is easily managed.”
“A tiger is easily managed, but its humours cannot be foretold.”
This statement was allowed to pass unchallenged, and before the silence was again broken, a servant announced that luncheon was ready. Mrs. Wylie led the way, and Trist followed. They were both rather absorbed during the dainty repast, and conversation was less interesting than the parlourmaid could have wished.
Had Trist been less honest, he could have thrown off this sense of guilt which weighed upon him. Like most reserved men, he was perhaps credited with a more versatile intellect than he really possessed. In his special line he was unrivalled, but that line was essentially manly, and the finesse it required was of a masculine order. That is to say, it was more straightforward, more honest, and less courageous, than the natural and instinctive finesse of a woman. This vague struggle with an over-susceptible conscience handicapped Trist seriously during the tête-à-tête meal, and rendered his conversation very dull. He was quite conscious of this, and the effort he made to remedy the defect was hardly successful. Men of his type—that is, men of a self-contained, self-reasoning nature—are too ready to consider themselves of that heavy material which forms the solid background of social intercourse. Their very virtues, such as steadfastness, coolness, complete self-reliance, are calculated to prevent their shining in conversation, or in the lighter social amenities. A little conversational impulse is required, a gay lightness of touch, and an easy divergence from opinions previously hazarded, in order to please the average listener; but these were
