At the Gate of Samaria

by William John Locke

“Caroline,” said her husband's deep voice behind her chair, “I don't think you know Mr. Kent.”

Clytie started round violently at the shock of the coincidence. Kent was standing by her side, looking odd, changed, a bit Philistine in his evening dress. He wore a glove over his burned hand.

They talked, explained their meeting. He had had a numismatic acquaintance with Mr. Farquharson for a long time past. Had received his invitation at the Museum, his private address not being known to his host. Clytie described her own privileged position in the household, speaking frankly, vivaciously. She felt a little thrill of pleasure at seeing him there. He seemed, more than the other guests, in harmony with the traditions of the house. They had not time for much conversation, social exigencies separating them. Besides, a general buzz and a subsiding into chairs or restful attitudes sounded the warning that Professor Petherick was about to read his paper.

He described the coin that had come into his possession,—previously it had been passed round for the inspection of the guests,—claiming it to be a finer specimen than the one in the Caylus collection. The figure of Castor beside his horse, without the pileus, on the reverse, he argued was a portrait of the unfortunate young co-emperor. The legend on the obverse proclaimed that it was a coin of Geta. He took this as the text for a learned disquisition upon the aureus, tracing its origin, the variations in its weight, to the time of Justinian, who fixed it as a limit stake for a throw of the dice. He quoted Pitiscus, Eckhel, many learned authorities. He read in a bland, easy tone, confident of his facts and his deductions.

Clytie felt relieved when he had finished. Across the room she had now and then caught Kent's eye, which had a humourous twinkle in it. She, who an hour before had been scoffing at the dry-as-dust nature of numismatics as a pursuit, now felt a consciousness of inferiority, of being relegated to the tribe feminine, who are not expected to care for intellectual matters. She nourished a seed of resentment against Kent and all archaeologists. But when the usual discussion on the paper began she set an example of interest in it to Mr. Vansittart, who had come over and sat down by her side. Really, she was curious to see what part Kent would take in the discussion. He seemed to find many acquaintances in the room, and an appreciative welcome from each. She experienced a strange sense of satisfaction at the dispelling of an unformulated apprehension lest he might be unknown, insignificant. She had seen him several times since his visit to the studio; once they had met at Sloane Square station and had walked home together. The acquaintance was ripening into friendliness. Now she was interested at seeing him in a new environment. Our conception of people changes very much according to the conditions with which we associate them. But Kent in the drawing-room, despite his unfamiliar attire, seemed much the same as Kent in the studio, his manner towards the men she saw him talking with much the same as his manner towards her. Presently he rose, broke into the discussion. The principal participators listened with apparent respect to his remarks, few in number, but apt.

“Well, Mr. Kent is an authority,” said the professor, surrendering a particular point with a certain grace.

The little tribute fell gratefully on Clytie's ears. Suddenly she became conscious that her pleasure was greater than the occasion warranted. She turned round quickly to Mr. Vansittart, who was taking but mild interest in the affair, and somewhat abruptly opened a conversation. The Rev. Mr. Treherne joined them soon afterwards, asking permission to introduce a friend. Thus it came about that Clytie had a small group around her, and her interest in Kent's proceedings was checked for a time.

Meanwhile Mrs. Farquharson had threaded her way through the crowd of black coats, and taken Kent off with her to an undisturbed corner. She was curious to examine Clytie's new “chum.”

“So you live in the same house as Clytie Davenant. You rescued her from the flames, didn't you? She told me something about it. What happened, exactly?”

Kent sketched briefly the little scene with the blazing curtains, and mentioned his visit next day and his subsequent meetings with Clytie. He politely expressed his agreeable surprise at meeting her to-night.