Brenda gave a little gasp, and the eyes that met his were, for a second, contracted with some quick emotion, which he thought was fear.
'Theo!' she exclaimed, 'Theo!' Then she stopped short, checking herself suddenly, and as she rose he saw the frightened look in her eyes again.
They shook hands, and for a brief moment neither seemed able to frame a syllable. Brenda's lips were dry, and her throat was parched—all in a second.
He looked round the room as if seeking someone, or the indication of a presence, such as a work-basket, a well-known book, or some similar token. Brenda concluded that he was wondering where Mrs. Wylie might be, and suddenly she found power to speak in a steady, even voice.
'Mrs. Wylie is out!' she said. 'I expect her in by tea-time.'
He nodded his head—indicated the chair which she had just left—and, when she was seated, knelt down on the hearthrug, holding his two hands to the fire.
'Where is Alice?' he asked, in a peculiar monotone.
'She is out with Mrs. Wylie—— Then ... you know?'
'Yes, Brenda, I know!' he answered gravely.
The girl sat forward in her low chair, with her two arms resting upon her knees, her slim, white hands interlocked. For a time she was off her guard, forgetting the outward composure taught in the school of which she was so apt a pupil. She actually allowed herself to breathe hurriedly, to lean forward, and drink in with her eager eyes the man's every feature and every movement. He was not looking towards her, but of her fixed gaze he was well aware. The sound of her quick respiration was close to his ear; her soft, warm breath reached his cheek. With all his iron composure, despite his cruel hold over himself, he wavered for a moment, and the hands held out to the glow of the fire shook perceptibly. But his meek eyes never lost their settled expression of speculative contemplation. Whatever other men might do, whatever women might suffer, Theodore Trist was sufficient for himself. The flame leapt up, and fell again with a little bubbling sound, glowing ruddily upon the two faces. He remained quite motionless, quite cold. It was the face of the great Napoleon again—inscrutable, deep beyond the depth of human soundings, cruel and yet sweet—but the high forehead seemed to suggest an infinite possibility of something else; some lack of energy, or some great negation, which cancelled at one blow the resemblance that lay in lip and chin and profile.