'Ye-es,' murmured Brenda vaguely. A moment later she was conscious of having looked round the room as if in search of halos, and wondered uncomfortably whether her companion had seen the movement.
Then a stout lady, with a very dark complexion, suddenly raised an exquisite voice, and a complete silence acknowledged its power instantaneously. It was a quaint old song, with words that might have had no meaning whatever, beyond trite regrets for days that could never come again, had they been sung with less feeling—less true human sympathy.
Brenda literally writhed beneath the flood of harmony. She tried not to listen—tried vainly to look round her and think cynical thoughts about the hollow shams of society, but some specially deep and tender note would reach her heart, despite the wall of worldliness that she had built around it. It would seem that that stout cheery woman could see through the smiles, through the affected masks, and penetrate to the heart, which is never quite safe from the sudden onslaught of youthful memories surviving still, youthful hopes since crushed, and youthful weaknesses never healed.
Brenda looked round the room with a semi-interested little smile (such as we see in church sometimes when a preacher has got well hold of his audience), and suddenly her face grew white, her breath seemed to catch, and for some seconds there was no motion of her throat or bosom. Respiration seemed to be arrested. With an effort she recovered herself, and a great sigh of relief filled her breast.
Among a number of men beneath the curtained doorway she had recognised an upright sturdy form, beside which the narrower shoulders and sunken chests of poetic and artistic celebrities seemed to shrink into insignificance. The way in which this man carried his head distinguished him at once from those around him. He was of quite a different stamp from his companions, most of whom depended upon some peculiarity of dress or hair to distinguish them from the very ordinary ruck of young men.
Across that vast room Trist's eyes met Brenda's, and although his calm face changed in no way, betrayed by no slightest tremor that he had come with the wild hope of meeting her, his lips moved.
'Thank God, I have done it!' he muttered, beneath the whirl of polite applause that greeted the stout lady's elephantine bow.
At the other end of the room Hicks noticed with some surprise that Brenda drew her watch from her belt, and consulted it with particular attention. She was counting the number of hours since she had last seen Theodore Trist, with signs of travel still visible on his dress and person, just starting off on a new journey, without rest or respite. It was now midnight. She had never thought that he would return the same night—in fact, she was sure that he had not intended to do so. And here he was—calm, thoughtful, almost too cool as usual, without sign of fatigue or suggestion of hurry. His dress was faultless, his appearance and demeanour politely indifferent.
'I hope,' said Hicks meaningly, 'that you are not growing weary. It is early yet.'
He looked round the room, with a pleasant nod for an acquaintance here and there whom he had not seen before.