Hicks laid aside his hat, and slowly drew off his slate-coloured gloves. The action was just a trifle stagy. He might well have been the hero of a play about to begin a difficult scene.
“Yes,” he answered meaningly; “I know.”
Brenda turned her small, proud head, and looked at him in silence. Her attitude was hardly one of surprise, and yet it betrayed her knowledge of his possible meaning. Altogether it was scarcely sympathetic.
Hicks allowed her a few moments in which to make some sort of reply or inquiry as to his meaning, but she failed to take the cue.
“I found out by accident,” he continued, “that Mrs. Wylie was upstairs with my mother, and had just arrived. It struck me that you might be alone here—the opportunity was one which I have waited for—so I came.”
Brenda’s eyes were much steadier than his, and he was forced to turn his gaze elsewhere.
“It was very good of you,” she said with strange simplicity, “to think of my solitude.”
Hicks caressed his matchless moustache complacently, although he was in reality not quite at ease.
“I wanted to speak to you,” he said, in a tone which deprecated the thought of a purely unselfish motive in the meritorious action.
“About … what?” inquired the girl, without enthusiasm.
“About myself—a dull topic, I am afraid.”
It is to be hoped that William Hicks did not expect an indignant denial; for such was not forthcoming. Brenda leant back in her chair in the manner of one composing herself to the consideration of a long and, probably, dull story. Her eyebrows were slightly raised, but she betrayed no signs of agitation or suspense.
Hicks slipped his cloak from his shoulders and rose. He stood on the hearthrug before her, looking down upon her as she reclined gracefully in the deep chair.
“Brenda,” he said, in a carefully modulated tone, “I am only a poor painter—that is to say, I am not making much money out of art. I am, however, making a name which will no doubt be valuable someday. In the meantime I am fortunately in a position to disregard the baser uses of art, and to seek her only for herself. I have a certain position already, and I am content even with it. I intend to do better—to make a greater name. And in that aim—you can help me!”
He was quite sincere, but the habit of posing was so strong upon him that the magnificence of his offer perhaps lost a little weight by the sense of study, of forethought, of preparation, as it were, in the manner of delivering it.
There was a singular suggestion of Theodore Trist’s school of life in the manner in which Brenda looked up now and spoke—a deliberate ignorance, almost, of the smoother social methods.
“Are you,” she inquired, “asking me to be your wife?”
Hicks stared at her vacantly. He was wondering what sequence of thought brought Theodore Trist into his mind at that moment. The question remained unanswered for some time.
“Yes,” he said at length weakly.
In all his private rehearsals of this scene, he had never conceived the possibility of having to answer such a query. It was hard to do with dignity; and for the first time, perhaps, in his life he was not quite content with his own method. After a momentary silence he recovered his usual aplomb. Brenda was, he argued, after all but a girl, and all girls are alike. Flattery reaches them every one.
“I have,” he said eagerly, giving her no opportunity of interrupting him, “known many people—moved in many circles. I am not an inexperienced schoolboy, and therefore my conviction should carry some weight with it. I am certain, Brenda, that I could find no more suitable wife if I searched all the world over. Your influence upon my art cannot fail to be beneficial—you are eminently fitted to take a high place in the social world; such a place as my wife will find awaiting her. I have made no secret of my financial position; and as to my place in the art world of this century, you know as much as I could tell you.”
He paused with a graceful wave of his white hand, and intimated his readiness to receive her answer. He even moved a step nearer to her, in order that he might with grace lean over her chair and take her hand when the proper moment arrived.
There was no emotion on either side. Neither forgot for a second that they were children of a self-suppressing generation, which considers all outward warmth of joy or sorrow to be “bad form.” William Hicks had delivered his words with faultless intonation—perfect pitch—allowing himself (as an artist) a graceful gesture here and there. Brenda took her cue from him.
“It is very good of you to make me such an advantageous offer,” she said, in an even and gentle voice, in which no ring of sarcasm could have been detected by much finer ears than those of William Hicks, which organs were partially paralyzed by self-conceit; “but I am afraid I must refuse.”
The artist was too much surprised to say anything at all. A refusal—to him! One of the most popular men in London. A great, though unappreciated painter—a perfect dancer—a social lion. He had been run after, I admit that, for most men are who take the trouble to be universally and impartially polite; but he had never taken the trouble of investigating the desirability or otherwise of those who ran after him. He had not quite realized that there was not a woman among them worthy to button Brenda’s glove.
“Will you not,” he stammered, with blanched face, “reconsider your … determination?”
The girl shook her head gravely.
“No!” she replied. “There is not the slightest chance of my ever doing that, and I am very, very sorry if from anything I have said or done you have been led to believe that my answer could possibly have been otherwise.”
To this Hicks made no direct reply. He could not with truth
