Trist had left his seat during this speech. He went to the fireplace and removed the kettle, which was boiling with mistaken ardour, to a cooler spot. He stood erect upon the hearthrug, and looked down into the pleasant woman’s face upturned towards him. His hands were clasped behind his back, and there was on his face an encouraging smile. Seeing it, the widow continued:
“I came tonight, Theo, because I wanted to come to some understanding with you, even at the risk of being considered meddlesome and unnecessarily anxious.”
“That risk is small, Mrs. Wylie.”
“Thank you. Now I am going to be frank with you—not with the view of forcing a reciprocal frankness upon you, but because it is the best method of saying difficult things. You disapprove of obtrusive frankness, I know.”
Trist laughed, and did not deny this accusation. Mrs. Wylie’s cup was empty, and he made a step forward and took it from her hand with grave courtesy.
“Will you have some more tea?” he inquired incidentally.
“Thanks; I will.”
There was a short silence, during which the young fellow deftly manipulated the teapot.
“The girls,” said the lady reflectively, as she stirred her second cup, “are, in a certain manner, cast upon my hands. I am morally responsible for their good name. Owing to an unfortunate chain of circumstances, they occupy at the present moment rather a prominent position in idle conversation. They cannot be too careful—you understand … ?”
She stopped short because Trist’s movements, which were rather restless, told her plainly enough that he had already got a long way in advance of her thoughts.
“You wish,” he said, “to forbid me the house just now.”
Mrs. Wylie was not improving the texture of the lace handkerchief she continued to twist round her finger. For some seconds she made no answer. She almost hoped that by waiting she would effect a slight breach in the impenetrable wall of reserve with which this man seemed to find pleasure in surrounding himself. In this, however, she was disappointed. His power of unembarrassed silence was unique in a Western-born man.
“Had it been anyone else,” she said at length, “I should have been obliged to do so. With you it is quite another matter. You are different from other men, Theo. I know that, but the general public does not, and consequently judges you by the same standard as it judges others.”
“They are quite right in doing that. I have a great respect for the general public.”
The widow looked rather sceptical respecting the latter statement, but did not raise the question.
“It is not,” she continued gravely, “from that point of view that I look at it. Indeed, I should be inclined in any case to leave it to you, because I think that you are gifted with a great strength of purpose. No consideration of public censure, public blame, or public commentary would force me to speak to you upon a subject which I honestly believe to be better left undiscussed. I believe that every man, Theo, every woman, every youth, and every girl, knows his or her own business best. I believe we are all capable of managing our own affairs better than the kindest of our neighbours could manage them for us. In this you agree with me—is it not so?”
“I thought,” replied Theo, without meeting her glance, “that that theory was mine. I must have learnt it unconsciously from you.”
“It has always been my conviction that you are a man singularly capable of managing your own affairs, and in my own sex I have fancied that I know a counterpart …”
“Yes? …” interrogated Trist in a semitone, divining that he was expected to do so.
“Brenda!” said Mrs. Wylie simply.
She had crossed her hands on her lap, and as her lips framed the girl’s name, she raised her head slowly and fixed her pleasant, keen glance on him. He stood with his hands clasped behind his back, leaning lightly against the corner of the mantelpiece. The single gas-jet of the old-fashioned chandelier cast a most uncompromising light upon his face; his eyes were raised, and he seemed to be contemplating the invention of a new burner.
Without detracting anything from the scrutiny to which she was subjecting him, she continued speaking.
“Now …” she said with some energy, “Brenda is miserable.”
For some seconds his face was perfectly motionless. His eyelids did not even move. It was a triumph of inscrutability. Then he moved his lips, pursing them up in a manner expressive of thoughtfulness and doubt combined.
“Why?”
“That,” replied Mrs. Wylie, turning away, “is exactly what I want to know.”
Trist did not appear to be in a position to supply the required information. The conversation was becoming decidedly strained, and Mrs. Wylie, while feeling her sangfroid gradually warming, as it were, noticed that there was plenty of staying-power in her companion still. He did not at that moment look like a man about to be betrayed into a hasty exposition of his inward thoughts or feelings. On motives of prudence she therefore relieved the strain.
“Brenda,” she said, “has been terribly worried by Alice, I know. It seems to me that if you kept out of their way for some little time it would be conducive to a more peaceful frame of mind all round—do you see?”
“Yes; I was thinking of going over to Paris. If there is a war in the spring, I shall have work to do for one or two French papers, and it is best to have these things arranged in advance.”
Mrs. Wylie winced. It seemed as if he had dragged in the unpleasant little monosyllable with the purpose of reminding her
