With Edged Tools | Page 5

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.
He took the small gloved hand and pressed it lovingly. The thoroughness of his social training prevented any further display of affection.
"Thank Heaven!" he murmured.
They were essentially of the nineteenth century--these two. At a previous dance he had asked her to marry him; she had deferred her answer, and now she had given it. These little matters are all a question of taste. We do not kneel nowadays, either physically or morally. If we are a trifle off hand, it is the women who are to blame. They should not write in magazines of a doubtful reputation in language devoid of the benefit of the doubt. They are equal to us. Bien! One does not kneel to an equal. A better writer than any of us says that men serve women kneeling, and when they get to their feet they go away. We are being hauled up to our feet now.
"But--?" began the girl, and went no further.
"But what?"
"There will be difficulties."
"No doubt," he answered, with quiet mockery. "There always are. I will see to them. Difficulties are not without a certain advantage. They keep one on the alert."
"Your father," said the girl. "Sir John--he will object."
Jack Meredith reflected for a moment, lazily, with that leisureliness which gave a sense of repose to his presence.
"Possibly," he admitted gravely.
"He dislikes me," said the girl. "He is one of my failures."
"I did not know you had any. Have you tried? I cannot quite admit the possibility of failure."
Millicent Chyne smiled. He had emphasised the last remark with lover-like glance and tone. She was young enough; her own beauty was new enough to herself to blind her to the possibility mentioned. She had not even got to the stage of classifying as dull all men who did not fall in love with her at first sight. It was her first season, one must remember.
"I have not tried very hard," she said. "But I don't see why I should not fail."
"That is easily explained."
"Why?"
"No looking-glass about."
She gave a little pout, but she liked it.
The music of the next dance was beginning, and, remembering their social obligations, they both rose. She laid her hand on his arm, and for a moment his fingers pressed hers. He smiled down into her upturned eyes with love, but without passion. He never for a second risked the "gentleman" and showed the "man." He was suggestive of a forest pool with a smiling rippled surface. There might be depth, but it was yet unpenetrated.
"Shall we go now," he said, "and say a few words in passing to my redoubtable father? It might be effective."
"Yes, if you like," she answered promptly. There is no more confident being on earth than a pretty girl in a successful dress.
They met Sir John at the entrance