“No,” said Hermia, “stay and talk to me. I am bored! I hate to be alone! Sit down.”
CHAPTER XXIII.
PLATONIC PROSPECTS.
She met Quintard the next afternoon at a tea. She was standing with a group of people when he joined her. After a moment he asked her to go over to the other side of the room and talk to him. She was somewhat amused at his directness, but went with him to a sofa and ignored the rest of the company for a half-hour.
At the end of that time she drew a long sigh of relief. He was not her ideal; he was commonplace. He talked very well, but with none of Cryder’s brilliancy. He was even a little didactic, a quality she detested. And he had none of the tact of an accomplished man of the world. She was not surprised to hear that he had not been to five entertainments in as many years. There was no subtle flattery in his manner; he did not appear to take any personal interest in her whatever; sometimes he appeared inattentive to what she was saying. She wondered why he had insisted upon talking to her. Moreover, he was cold, and coldness and her ideal had never shaken hands. He looked as if nothing could move that calm self-control, that slow, somewhat stiff formality.
She saw him several times during the next two weeks, but never alone. In the mean time she heard much of him. His personal appearance, his wealth, his exile and its cause, made him an interesting figure, and people began to remember and compare all the tales regarding him which had floated across the Atlantic during the last five years. These tales were of a highly adventurous nature, and were embroidered and fringed.
Quintard was not very grateful. He went out seldom, and got away as soon as he could. This, of course, made people wonder what he was doing.
Hermia heard all these stories with some surprise. They seemed so incongruous with the man. Assuredly there was neither romance nor love of adventure in him; he was quite matter-of-fact; he might have been a financier. She thought, however, that he had humor enough to be amused at the stories he had inspired.
One evening he found her alone. The night was cold, and she was sitting in a heap in a big arm-chair by the fire, huddled up in a soft, bright, Japanese gown. She did not rise as he entered, and he looked at her calmly and took a seat on the other side of the hearth.