I
In his gilded cage, above the window-boxes that were full of white
daisies, the canary chirped with a desultory vivacity. That was the only
near sound that broke the silence in the drawing-room of No. 100 Mill
Street, Knightsbridge, in which a man and a woman stood facing one
another. Away, beyond his twittering voice, sang in the London streets
the muffled voice of the season. The time was late afternoon, and rays
of mellow light slanted into the pretty room, and touched its crowd of
inanimate occupants with a radiance in which the motes danced merrily.
The china faces of two goblins on the mantelpiece glowed with a
grotesque meaning, and their yellow smiles seemed to call aloud on
mirth; but the faces of the man and woman were pale, and their lips
trembled, and did not smile.
She was tall, dark, and passionate-looking, perhaps twenty-eight or
thirty. He was a few years older, a man so steadfast in expression that
silly people, who spring at exaggeration as saints spring at heaven,
called him stern, and even said he looked forbidding--at balls.
At last the song of the canary was broken upon by a voice. Sir Hugh
Maine spoke, very quietly. "Why not?" he said.
"I don't think I can tell you," Mrs. Glinn answered, with an obvious
effort.
"You prefer to refuse me without giving a reason?"
"I have a right to," she said.
"I don't question it. You cannot expect me to say more than that."
He took up his hat, which lay on a chair, and smoothed it mechanically
with his coat-sleeve.
The action seemed to pierce her like a knife, for she started, and
half-extended her hand. "Don't!" she exclaimed. "At least, wait one
moment. So you belong to the second class of men."
"What do you mean?"
"Men are divided into two classes--those who refuse to be refused, and
those who accept. But don't be too--too swift in your acceptance. After
all, a refusal is not exactly a bank-note."
She tried to smile.
"But I am exactly a beggar," he answered, still keeping the hat in his
hand. "And if you have nothing to give me, I may as well go."
"And spend the rest of your life in sweeping the old crossing?"
"And spend the rest of my life as I can," he said. "That need not
concern you."
"A woman must be all to a man, or nothing?"
"You must be all to me, or nothing."
She sat down in an arm-chair in that part of the room that was in
shadow. She always sat instinctively in shadow when she wanted to think.
"Well?" Sir Hugh said. "What are you thinking?"
She glanced up at him. "That you don't look much like a beggar," she
said.
"It is possible to feel tattered in a frock-coat and patent-leather
boots," he answered. "Good-bye. I am going back to my crossing." And he
moved towards the door.
"No, stop!" she exclaimed. "Before you go, tell me one thing."
"What is it?"
"Will you ever ask me to marry you again?"
He looked hard into her eyes. "I shall always want to, but I shall never
do it," he said slowly.
"I am glad you have told me that. We women depend so much on a
repetition of the offence, when we blame a man for saying he loves us,
and ask him not to do it again. If you really mean only to propose once,
I must reconsider my position."
She was laughing, but the tears stood in her eyes.
"Why do you want to make this moment a farcical one?" he asked rather
bitterly.
"Oh, Hugh!" she answered, "don't you see? Because it is really--really
so tragic. I only try to do for this moment what we all try to do for
life."
"Then you love me?" he said, moving a step forward.
"I never denied that," she replied. "I might as well deny that I am a
woman."