The soldier made a violent effort, pulled himself together, and stepped into the road. The artist stepped with him, and, furthermore, slipped his gloved hand within his companion's arm with a familiar ease which seemed to say that they would live or die together until the passage was safely accomplished.
'How is Mrs. Huston?' inquired he when they had reached the opposite pavement.
That lady's husband looked very stolid as he answered:
'Quite well, thanks.'
He mentally wriggled, poor fellow, and in sympathy his arm became lifeless and repelling. Hicks removed his hand from the unappreciative sleeve.
'Do you know,' he asked pleasantly, 'whether Trist happens to be in town?'
Huston began to feel uncomfortable. He was afraid of this society prig, and honestly wished to save his wife's name from the ready tongue of slander.
'I don't,' he answered abruptly—'why?'
This sudden question in no way disconcerted Hicks, who met the soldier's unsteady, and would-be severe, gaze with bland innocence.
'Because I happen to know a Russian artist who is very anxious to meet him, that is all.'