One afternoon in February Brenda was sitting alone in the drawing-room in Suffolk Mansions when a visitor arrived. It was no other than William Hicks. His entrée was executed with the usual faultless grace and savoir-faire. He carried a soft hat, for it was foggy, and his long black cloak was thrown carelessly back to the full advantage of a broad astrakhan collar.
This was the first visit he had paid since the death of Captain Huston; consequently he and Brenda had not met since the ball to which Trist had conceived the bold idea of bringing his enemy. With this fact in view William Hicks smiled in a sympathetic way as he advanced with outstretched hand, but said no word. They shook hands gravely, and Brenda resumed her seat.
'Mrs. Wylie has just gone to your mother's,' she said, in some surprise.
Hick's 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.'