Sir John called him sarcastically his “bright boy,” his “hopeful offspring,” the “pride of his old age”; but somewhere in his shrivelled old heart there nestled an unbounded love and admiration for his son. Jack had assimilated his teaching with a wonderful aptitude. He had as nearly as possible realised Sir John Meredith's idea of what an English gentleman should be, and the old aristocrat's standard was uncompromisingly high. Public school, University, and two years on the Continent had produced a finished man, educated to the finger-tips, deeply read, clever, bright, and occasionally witty; but Jack Meredith was at this time nothing more than a brilliant conglomerate of possibilities. He had obeyed his father to the letter with a conscientiousness bred of admiration. He had always felt that his father knew best. And now he seemed to be waiting—possibly for further orders. He was suggestive of a perfect piece of mechanism standing idle for want of work delicate enough to be manipulated by its delicate craft. Sir John had impressed upon him the desirability of being independent, and he had promptly cultivated that excellent quality, taking kindly enough to rooms of his own in a fashionable quarter. But upon the principle of taking a horse to the water and being unable to make him drink, Sir John had not hitherto succeeded in making Jack take the initiative. He had turned out such a finished and polished English gentleman as his soul delighted in, and now he waited in cynical silence for Jack Meredith to take his life into his own hands and do something brilliant with it. All that he had done up to now had been to prove that he could attain to a greater social popularity than any other man of his age and station; but this was not exactly the success that Sir John Meredith coveted for his son. He had tasted of this success himself, and knew its thinness of flavour—its fleeting value.
Behind his keen old eyes such thoughts as these were passing, while he watched Jack go up and claim his dance at the hands of Miss Millicent Chyne. He could almost guess what they said; for Jack was grave and she smiled demurely. They began dancing at once, and as soon as the floor became crowded they disappeared.
Jack Meredith was an adept at such matters. He knew a seat at the end of a long passage where they could sit, the beheld of all beholders who happened to pass; but no one could possibly overhear their conversation—no one could surprise them. It was essentially a strategical position.
“Well,” inquired Jack, with a peculiar breathlessness, when they were seated, “have you thought about it?”
She gave a little nod.
They seemed to be taking up some conversation at a point where it had been dropped on a previous occasion.
“And?” he inquired suavely. The society polish was very thickly coated over the man; but his eyes had a hungry look.
By way of reply her gloved hand crept out towards his, which rested on the chair at his side.
“Jack!” she whispered; and that was all.
It was very prettily done, and quite naturally. He was a judge of such matters, and appreciated the girlish simplicity of the action.