With Edged Tools | Page 5

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.
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,"