Hicks ceased speaking, and waited for some exclamation of disgust, some heated denial or indignant proof of the utter falseness of the accusations made against Alice Huston. None of these was forthcoming. Theo Trist merely indicated his comprehension of the cruel words, and sat thinking. Beneath that calm exterior the man’s brain was very busy, and as he raised his head with a slight pensive frown Hicks recognised for the first time the resemblance to the great Corsican which was currently attributed to the war-correspondent.
“Suppose,” said Trist at length, “suppose that I were to walk arm-in-arm into this room with Huston. Would that do?”
“Can you manage it?” inquired the artist incredulously.
“I think so; if I can only find him. Suppose Huston were to dance with Brenda, and we were all to give it out that Alice is staying with her father in Cheltenham or somewhere.”
Hicks’ first inclination was towards laughter. The proposal was made so simply and so readily that the whole affair appeared for a moment merely ludicrous.
“Yes,” he said vaguely; “that will do; that will do very well. But … is Huston invited?”
“I will manage that.”
There was a peaceful sense of capability about this man before which all obstacles seemed to crumble away. Hicks felt slightly dissatisfied. His own part was too small in this social comedy. The conduct of Brenda’s affairs was slipping from his grasp, and yet he could do nothing but submit. Trist had unconsciously taken command, and when command is unconscious it is also arbitrary.
“I will go now and bring Huston,” he added presently, and without further words left his seat.
Hicks caressed the golden moustache, and watched him as he moved easily through the gay, heedless throng—a sturdy, strong young figure, full of manhood, full of purpose, the absurdly meek eyes shunning rather than seeking the many glances of recognition that met him on his way.
He went up to his hostess, and with her came apparently straight to the point, for Hicks saw the lady listen attentively and then acquiesce with a ready smile.
Nearly half an hour elapsed before Brenda arrived. She was one of a large party, and her programme had been in other hands before Hicks became possessed of it. He glanced keenly down the column of hieroglyphics. The initials were all genuine, but three dances had been kept by a little cross carefully inserted. Hicks obtained two waltzes, and returned the card with his usual self-satisfied smile. He knew that Brenda expected Trist, although she was not looking round as if in search of anybody. But he was fully convinced that there was some mystery on foot. One dance, he had observed, which was marked with a cross, was a square. Trist and Brenda had met by appointment—not as young men meet maidens every night in the year at dances for purposes of flirtation, or the more serious pastime of lovemaking, but to discuss some point of mutual interest.
As a rival Hicks had no fear of Theodore Trist, who, he argued, was a very fine fellow in his way, but quite without social accomplishments. He was a good dancer—that point he generously admitted—but beyond that he had nothing to recommend him in the eyes of a clever and experienced girl like Brenda, who had had the advantages of association with some of the most talented men of her day, and intimacy with himself, William Hicks. There was only that trivial matter of athletic and muscular superiority, which really carried no great weight with a refined womanly intellect. In a ballroom Theodore Trist, with his brown, grave face, his absorbed eyes, and his sturdy form, was distinctly out of place. He had not even a white waistcoat, wore three studs in the front of his shirt, and sometimes even forgot to sport a flower in his coat. His very virtues (of an old fashion), such as steadfastness, truth, and honesty, prevented him from shining in society. Fortunately, however, for his own happiness he was without vanity, and therefore unconscious of his own shortcomings. It is just within the scope of possibility that he was moved by no ambition to shine in society.
While the first bars of the waltz were in progress, Hicks found Brenda. He had little difficulty in doing so, because he had been watching her. Moreover, she was dressed in black, which was a rare attire in that room. In choosing this sombre garb she had made no mistake; the style suited exactly her slim, strong young form, and in contrast her neck and arms were dazzling in their whiteness.
They began dancing at once, and Hicks was conscious that there was no couple in the room so perfectly harmonious in movement, so skilled, so intensely refined.
“Trist,” he said presently in a confidential way, “has been here.”
“Indeed!” was the guarded reply, made with pleasant indifference.
“Yes … Brenda, he and I had a little talk, and, in consequence, he will be absent for some time, but he is coming back.”
“What,” she inquired calmly, “did you talk about?”
All this time they were dancing, smoothly and with the indefatigable rhythm of skilled feet.
“It has come to my knowledge,” he replied, “that gossip has connected the names of Alice and Trist, and there are foolish stories going about concerning Huston, who is said to be searching for Trist with the intention of shooting him. Trist has gone to bring Huston here; they will come into the room arm-in-arm. We arranged it, and I think no further contradiction is required.”
Had she winced he would have been aware of it, because his arm was round her yielding waist, and her hand was within his. She turned her head slightly as if to assist him in steering successfully through a narrow place; and he, glancing down, saw that her face was as white as marble, but her step never faltered. She drew a deep unsteady breath, and spoke in a grateful
