Frank Hamilton looked down at his handiwork and found it good. But still he fidgeted with the back of a chair as he surveyed it, and his eyes were bright with some mental or physical excitement. He was not often restless, but to-night his nerves were evidently on edge. His teeth gnawed his lower lip and his eyes constantly sought the clock.
Then, after giving a last touch to the table, he pulled out a bunch of keys from his pocket and unlocked a corner cupboard where he kept liqueurs and wines. He never forgot to lock that cupboard, no matter how late his company left or how high his visions had soared, for he had a great mistrust of servants. His usual manner was half dreamy, rather abstracted, as though the sordid details of everyday life passed him by, but the impression that he gave was misleading. Often his mind was most practical when his eyes seemed only to hold vague dreams and beautiful, unworldly ideals, and if anyone thought to drive an easy bargain at such a time he found himself mistaken. As a child at school Frank had always managed to elude just punishment by that same manner of aloofness from desks and copybooks, and from quite early manhood women had taught him to realize how that air, combined with obvious good looks and the reputation for “temperament,” could be made valuable. The way in which his eyes would light up with sudden enthusiasm, the frank expressions of admiration which came easily to his lips, the appeal which he made by a seemingly exclusive devotion to the woman of the moment, had always made him a favourite with the fair sex, who contrasted him with the more phlegmatic males of their acquaintance to his great advantage, for “it’s the high-falutin stuff the women bite on.”
Men did not like Frank Hamilton, and he was seldom seen in their company. A few artists dropped in on him occasionally to talk “shop,” but they were never heard to speak of him with any enthusiasm. Indeed, among them he had the reputation for being “close,” and that happy-go-lucky, jovial crowd that lends and borrows with equal ease found this unforgivable. He was not willing to “part,” nor did he try to put commissions in their way, and lately, as de Bleriot had been heard to say at the Chelsea Arts Club, “Hamilton’s getting altogether too big for his boots.”
After Frank had put the liqueurs on the sideboard, he noticed that the card which had been attached to the bunch of roses he had just arranged had fallen to the ground. He picked it up and re-read it with a little smile of amusement.
“To the greatest of artists and my dear friend. M.J.”
With a laugh, he tore it up into fragments and threw the pieces in the fire. “Maria Jacobs! Maria Jacobs! Well, the roses have come in handy”—mockingly—“thank you, Maria.”
As the last fragment was consumed, the door-bell rang, and he went out into the hall to receive his visitor.
“I am afraid I am a little late,” apologized Claudia, letting him take her cloak, “but—— Oh, well! the Bridgemans are later, it seems, so I shan’t apologize any more.”
He drew her into the dining-room and kissed her.
“Don’t! You are crushing the poor primroses. Are they not sweet? Don’t you love the frailty and delicate sweetness of wild flowers?”