Hicks stared at her vacantly. He was wondering what sequence of thought brought Theodore Trist into his mind at that moment. The question remained unanswered for some time.
'Yes,' he said at length weakly.
In all his private rehearsals of this scene, he had never conceived the possibility of having to answer such a query. It was hard to do with dignity; and for the first time, perhaps, in his life he was not quite content with his own method. After a momentary silence he recovered his usual aplomb. Brenda was, he argued, after all but a girl, and all girls are alike. Flattery reaches them every one.
'I have,' he said eagerly, giving her no opportunity of interrupting him, 'known many people—moved in many circles. I am not an inexperienced schoolboy, and therefore my conviction should carry some weight with it. I am certain, Brenda, that I could find no more suitable wife if I searched all the world over. Your influence upon my art cannot fail to be beneficial—you are eminently fitted to take a high place in the social world; such a place as my wife will find awaiting her. I have made no secret of my financial position; and as to my place in the art world of this century, you know as much as I could tell you.'
He paused with a graceful wave of his white hand, and intimated his readiness to receive her answer. He even moved a step nearer to her, in order that he might with grace lean over her chair and take her hand when the proper moment arrived.
There was no emotion on either side. Neither forgot for a second that they were children of a self-suppressing generation, which considers all outward warmth of joy or sorrow to be 'bad form.' William Hicks had delivered his words with faultless intonation—perfect pitch—allowing himself (as an artist) a graceful gesture here and there. Brenda took her cue from him.
'It is very good of you to make me such an advantageous offer,' she said, in an even and gentle voice, in which no ring of sarcasm could have been detected by much finer ears than those of William Hicks, which organs were partially paralyzed by self-conceit; 'but I am afraid I must refuse.'
The artist was too much surprised to say anything at all. A refusal—to him! One of the most popular men in London. A great, though unappreciated painter—a perfect dancer—a social lion. He had been run after, I admit that, for most men are who take the trouble to be universally and impartially polite; but he had never taken the trouble of investigating the desirability or otherwise of those who ran after him. He had not quite realized that there was not a woman among them worthy to button Brenda's glove.
'Will you not,' he stammered, with blanched face, 'reconsider your ... determination?'
The girl shook her head gravely.