Hicks caressed his matchless moustache complacently, although he was in reality not quite at ease.
'I wanted to speak to you,' he said, in a tone which deprecated the thought of a purely unselfish motive in the meritorious action.
'About ... what?' inquired the girl, without enthusiasm.
'About myself—a dull topic, I am afraid.'
It is to be hoped that William Hicks did not expect an indignant denial; for such was not forthcoming. Brenda leant back in her chair in the manner of one composing herself to the consideration of a long and, probably, dull story. Her eyebrows were slightly raised, but she betrayed no signs of agitation or suspense.
Hicks slipped his cloak from his shoulders and rose. He stood on the hearthrug before her, looking down upon her as she reclined gracefully in the deep chair.
'Brenda,' he said, in a carefully modulated tone, 'I am only a poor painter—that is to say, I am not making much money out of art. I am, however, making a name which will no doubt be valuable some day. In the meantime I am fortunately in a position to disregard the baser uses of art, and to seek her only for herself. I have a certain position already, and I am content even with it. I intend to do better—to make a greater name. And in that aim—you can help me!'
He was quite sincere, but the habit of posing was so strong upon him that the magnificence of his offer perhaps lost a little weight by the sense of study, of forethought, of preparation, as it were, in the manner of delivering it.
There was a singular suggestion of Theodore Trist's school of life in the manner in which Brenda looked up now and spoke—a deliberate ignorance, almost, of the smoother social methods.
'Are you,' she inquired, 'asking me to be your wife?'