She hastened to repair her maladroit observation by adding before he could reply,—
“That is rather an imbecile thing to say considering the millions of people in London. But one is apt to talk in an imbecile manner after a twelve hours' day of hard racket in the season. Don't you think so? One's stock of ideas gets used up, like the air at the end of a dance.”
“Not if you keep your soul properly ventilated,” he answered.
The words were, perhaps, not so arresting as the manner in which they were uttered. Norma Hardacre was startled. A little shutter in the back of her mind seemed to have flashed open for an elusive second, and revealed a prospect wide, generous, alive with free-blowing airs. Then all was dark again before she could realise the vision. She was disconcerted, and in a much more feminine way than was habitual with her she glanced at him again. This time she lost sight of the poor, untidy garments, and found a sudden interest in the man's kind, careworn face, and his eyes, wonderfully blue and bright, set far apart in the head, that seemed to look out on the world with a man's courage and a child's confidence. She was uncomfortably conscious of being in contact with a personality widely different from that of her usual masculine associates. This her training and habit of mind caused her to resent; despising the faint spiritual shock, she took refuge in flippancy.
“I fear our Tobin tubes get choked up in London,” she said with a little laugh. “Even if they did n't they are wretched things, which create draughts; so anyway our souls are free from chills. Look at that woman over there talking to Captain Orton—every one knows he's paymaster-general. A breath of fresh air in Mrs. Chance's soul would give it rheumatic fever.”
The abominable slander falling cynically from young lips brought a look of disapproval into Jimmie Padgate's eyes.
“Why do you say such things?” he asked. “You know you don't believe them.”
“I do believe them,” she replied defiantly. “Why shouldn't one believe the bad things one hears of one's neighbours? It's a vastly more entertaining faith than belief in their virtues. Virtue—being its own reward—is deadly stale to one's friends and unprofitable to oneself.”
“Cynicism seems cheap to-day,” said Jimmie, with a smile that redeemed his words from impertinence. “Won't you give me something of yourself a little more worth having?”
Norma, who was leaning back in her chair fanning herself languidly, suddenly bent forward, with curious animation in her cold face.
“I don't know who you are or what you are,” she exclaimed. “Why should you want more than the ordinary futilities of after-dinner talk?”
“Because one has only to look at you,” he replied, “to see that it must be very easy to get. You have beauty inside as well as outside, and everybody owes what is beautiful and good in them to their fellow-creatures.”
“I don't see why. According to you, women ought to go about like mediaeval saints.”
“Every woman is a saint in the depths of her heart,” said Jimmie.
“You are an astonishing person,” replied Norma.
The conversation ended there, for Morland King came up with Constance Deering: he florid, good-looking, perfectly groomed and dressed, the type of the commonplace, well-fed, affluent Briton; she a pretty, fragile butterfly of a woman. Jimmie rose and was led off to another part of the room by his hostess. King dropped into the chair Jimmie had vacated.
“I see you have been sampling my friend Jimmie Padgate. What do you make of him?”
“I have just told him he was an astonishing person,” said Norma.
“Dear old Jimmie! He's the best fellow in the world,” said King, laughing. “A bit Bohemian and eccentric—artists generally are—”
“Oh, he's an artist?” inquired Norma.
“He just manages to make a living by it, poor old chap! He has never come off, somehow.”
“Another neglected genius?”
“I don't know about that,” replied Morland King in a matter-of-fact way, not detecting the sneer in the girl's tone. “I don't think he's a great swell—I'm no judge, you know. But he has had a bad time. Anyway, he always comes up smiling. The more he gets knocked the more cheerful he seems to grow. I never met any one like him. The most generous, simple-minded beggar living.”
“He must be wonderful to make you enthusiastic,” said Norma.
“Look at him now, talking to the Chance woman as if she were an angel of light.”
Norma glanced across the room and smiled contemptuously.
“She seems to like it. She's preening herself as if the wings were already grown. Connie,” she called to her hostess, who was passing by, “why have you hidden Mr. Padgate from me all this time?”
The butterfly lady laughed. “He is too precious. I can only afford to give my friends a peep at him now and then. I want to keep him all to myself.”
She fluttered away. Norma leaned back and hid a yawn with her fan; then, rousing herself with an effort, made conversation with her companion. Presently another man came up and King retired.
“How is it getting on?” whispered Mrs. Deering.
“Oh, steady,” he replied with his hands in his pockets.
“Lucky man!”
Morland King shrugged his shoulders. “The only thing against it is papa and mamma—chiefly mamma. A Gorgon of a woman!”
“You'll never get a wife to do you more credit than Norma. With that face I wonder she is n't a duchess by now. There was a duke once, but a fair American eagle came and swooped him off under Norma's nose. You see, she's not the sort of girl to give a man much encouragement.”
“Oh, I can't stand a woman who throws herself at your head,” said King, emphatically.
“What a funny way men have nowadays of confessing to the tender passion!” said Mrs. Deering, laughing.
“What would you have a fellow do?” he asked. “Spout blank verse about the stars and things, like a Shakespearean hero?”
“It would be prettier, anyhow.”
“Well, if you will have it, I'm about as hard hit as a man ever was—there!”
“I 'm delighted to hear it,” said his cousin.
A short while afterwards the dinner-party broke up.
“I don't know whether you care to mix with utter worldlings like us, Mr. Padgate,” said Norma, as she bade him good-bye, “but we are always in on Tuesdays.”
“I'll tie him hand and foot and bring him,” said King. “Good-night, old chap. I'm giving Miss Hardacre a lift home in the brougham.”
Before Jimmie could say yes or no, they were gone. He found himself the last.
“You are certainly not going for another hour, Jimmie,” said Mrs. Deering, as he came forward to take leave. “You will sit in that chair and smoke and tell me all about yourself and make me feel good and pretty.”
“Very well,”