The young widow was of course dressed in black, which, moreover, was relieved by no ornament; but although there was crape on the skirt, that unbecoming material was sparingly worn. The dress was opened slightly on the whitest throat imaginable, and the sleeves were loose below the elbow. Trist acknowledged inwardly that this woman had never looked so lovely as she did at that moment, with the glow of the lamp on her white throat and hands, a faint conscious blush upon her cheek, her golden hair gleaming softly.
He advanced to meet her with his impenetrable friendliness. Ah! it is those grave faces which we can never read.
“I was afraid,” said Mrs. Huston, “that you were not in Paris … or that even if you were you would not come.”
Trist took a chair which she had indicated with a wave of the hand.
“I have been hanging on,” he said, “from day to day. …”
Mrs. Huston looked at him with an expectant, half-inviting smile—a smile which Brenda loathed.
“For no particular reason,” continued the journalist with deliberate stolidity. “I have fallen in with an interesting lot of men, and there is nothing to call me away.”
The young widow’s expression of countenance altered from one of coquetry to well-simulated but nevertheless fictitious interest.
At this moment a waiter appeared with the information that madame was served.
“Colonel and Mrs. Martyn have unfortunately been called away this evening, so you will have to content yourself with me,” observed Mrs. Huston innocently, as she led the way down to the luxurious salle-à-manger.
“That,” answered Trist perfunctorily, “will be no hardship.”
The tone in which he said this almost made it a question as to whether it would not have been politer to have kept silent.
During dinner they talked easily and pleasantly, as behoved two persons knowing the world and its ways. Occasionally they sparred in a subtle underhand way which no listener could have detected, Mrs. Huston attacking, Trist parrying as usual.
“There are,” said the lady when the waiter finally left them, “cigarettes upstairs. The Colonel always smokes and has his coffee there. Will you do the same?”
Trist bowed silently as he rose from his seat.
When they reached the salon she went to a side-table, and returned presently with a box of cigarettes. This she opened and held out to him with both hands. There was in her movements a marvellous combination of girlish grace and womanly “finish,” and her attitude as she stood before him with her white arms outstretched, her head thrown back, and her glowing eyes seeking his, was perfect in its artistic conception.
“Please smoke,” she said in a low voice.
He did not respond at once, and, seeing his hesitation, she continued rather hurriedly:
“Surely you need not stand on ceremony with me, Theo? We … we have been friends all our lives.”
He smiled in a slow, grave way as he took a cigarette.
“Yes,” he answered, “we know each other pretty well.”
While he struck a match and lighted his cigarette she turned away and took a low chair, swinging the rustling skirt of her dress aside with inimitable grace. It happened that there was a seat close to it, while no other was within convenient reach. Trist remained standing before the fireplace, where some logs burned fragrantly.
“It is a pity,” she said, looking up at him in a curious, half-embarrassed way, “that we are not cousins. I almost … wish we were. The world would have nothing to say about our friendship then.”
Trist looked at the burnt end of his cigarette with careful criticism.
“Has the world anything to say … about it now?”
She shrugged her beautiful shoulders, and arranged the brooch at her breast before replying in a low tone.
“I don’t care if it has.”
“What does it say?” asked the journalist, with imperturbable cruelty.
By way of reply she raised her eyes to his. A faint cloud of tobacco-smoke floated upwards, passed overhead, and left his strange incongruous face exposed to the full light of the shaded lamp. The beautiful eyes searched his features, and I maintain that few men could have looked down at that lovely woman, could have met those pleading eyes, could have ventured within the reach of that subtle feminine influence, unmoved. If Trist was uneasy no outward sign betrayed him; no quiver of the eyelids; no motion of the lips. During some moments there was a tense silence, while these two looked into each other’s eyes, probed each other’s souls. The veil which hangs round that treasure we all possess—the treasure of an unassailable, illegible, secret individuality—seemed to fall away. Without words they understood each other. Indeed, no words could have explained as that mutual searching glance had done.
Alice Huston knew then that she had met a man—the first in all probability—who was totally impervious to the baleful influence of the charms she had wielded so long, without defining or seeking to define them. She only knew that a turn of her head, a glance of her eyes, a touch of her hand, had been sufficient to work her will upon men. Without theorizing upon sexual influence she had used it unscrupulously, as most women do, and hitherto it had never failed. She was aware that she could lead men who were beyond the reach of the strongest purpose possessed by their own
