"Well, knowing what I want to do. That's everything, you know."
"It's an advantage, however, that you've only just come in for, isn't
it?"
"Yes, but the delay and the probation only make me prize it the more.
I've got it now; and it makes up for the absence of some other things."
Again Peter had a pause. "That sounds a little flat," he remarked at
last.
"It depends on what you compare it with. It has more point than I
sometimes found in the House of Commons."
"Oh I never thought I should like that!"
There was another drop during which Nick moved about the room turning up
old sketches to see if he had anything more to show, while his visitor
continued to look at the unfinished and in some cases, as seemed,
unpromising productions already exposed. They were far less interesting
than the portrait of Miriam Rooth and, it would have appeared, less
significant of ability. For that particular effort Nick's talent had
taken an inspired flight. So much Peter thought, as he had thought it
intensely before; but the words he presently uttered had no visible
connexion with it. They only consisted of the abrupt inquiry; "Have you
heard anything from Julia?"
"Not a syllable. Have you?"
"Dear no; she never writes to me."
"But won't she on the occasion of your promotion?"
"I daresay not," said Peter; and this was the only reference to Mrs.
Dallow that passed between her brother and her late intended. It left a
slight stir of the air which Peter proceeded to allay by an allusion
comparatively speaking more relevant. He expressed disappointment that
Biddy shouldn't have come in, having had an idea she was always in
Rosedale Road of a morning. That was the other branch of his present
errand--the wish to see her and give her a message for Lady Agnes, upon
whom, at so early an hour, he had not presumed to intrude in Calcutta
Gardens. Nick replied that Biddy did in point of fact almost always turn
up, and for the most part early: she came to wish him good-morning and
start him for the day. She was a devoted Electra, laying a cool, healing
hand on a distracted, perspiring Orestes. He reminded Peter, however,
that he would have a chance of seeing her that evening, and of seeing
Lady Agnes; for wasn't he to do them the honour of dining in Calcutta
Gardens? Biddy, the day before, had arrived full of that excitement.
Peter explained that this was exactly the sad subject of his actual
_demarche_: the project of the dinner in Calcutta Gardens had, to his
exceeding regret, fallen to pieces. The fact was (didn't Nick know it?)
the night had been suddenly and perversely fixed for Miriam's premiere,
and he was under a definite engagement with her not to stay away from
it. To add to the bore of the thing he was obliged to return to Paris
the very next morning. He was quite awfully sorry, for he had promised
Lady Agnes: he didn't understand then about Miriam's affair, in regard
to which he had given a previous pledge. He was more grieved than he
could say, but he could never fail Miss Rooth: he had professed from the
first an interest in her which he must live up to a little more. This
was his last chance--he hadn't been near her at the trying time of her
first braving of the public. And the second night of the play wouldn't
do--it must be the first or nothing. Besides, he couldn't wait over till
Monday.
While Peter recited all his hindrance Nick was occupied in rubbing with
a cloth a palette he had just scraped. "I see what you mean--I'm very
sorry too. I'm sorry you can't give my mother this joy--I give her so
little."
"My dear fellow, you might give her a little more!" it came to Peter to
say. "It's rather too much to expect _me_ to make up for your
omissions!"
Nick looked at him with a moment's fixedness while he polished the
palette; and for that moment he felt the temptation to reply: "There's a
way you could do that, to a considerable extent--I think you guess
it--which wouldn't be intrinsically disagreeable." But the impulse
passed without expressing itself in speech, and he simply brought out;
"You can make this all clear to Biddy when she comes, and she'll make it
clear to my mother."
"Poor little Biddy!" Peter mentally sighed, thinking of the girl with
that job before her; but what he articulated was that this was exactly
why he had come to the studio. He had inflicted his company on Lady
Agnes the previous Thursday and had partaken of a meal with her, but had
not seen Biddy though he had waited for her, had hoped immensely she'd
come in. Now he'd wait again--dear Bid was thoroughly worth it.
"Patience, patience then--you've always me!" said Nick; to which he
subjoined: "If it's a question of going to the play I scarcely see why
you shouldn't dine at my mother's all the same. People go to the play
after dinner."
"Yes, but it wouldn't be fair, it wouldn't be decent: it's a case when I
must be in my seat from the rise of the curtain." Peter, about this, was
thoroughly lucid. "I should force your mother to dine an hour earlier
than usual and then in return for her courtesy should go off to my
entertainment at eight o'clock, leaving her and Grace and Biddy
languishing there. I wish I had proposed in time that they should go
with me," he continued not very ingenuously.
"You might do that still," Nick suggested.
"Oh at this time of day it would be impossible to get a box."
"I'll speak to Miss Rooth about it if you like when she comes," smiled
Nick.
"No, it wouldn't do," said Peter, turning away and looking once more at
his watch. He made tacitly the addition that still less than asking Lady
Agnes for his convenience to dine early would _this_ be decent, would it
be thinkable. His taking Biddy the night he dined with her and with Miss
Tressilian had been something very like a violation of those
proprieties. He couldn't say that, however, to the girl's brother, who
remarked in a moment that it was all right, since Peter's action left
him his own freedom.
"Your own freedom?"--and Peter's question made him turn.
"Why you see now I can go to the theatre myself."
"Certainly; I hadn't thought of that. You'd naturally have been going."
"I gave it up for the prospect of your company at home."
"Upon my word you're too good--I don't deserve such sacrifices," said
Peter, who read in his kinsman's face that this was not a figure of
speech but the absolute truth. "Didn't it, however, occur to you that,
as it would turn out, I might--I even naturally _would_--myself be
going?" he put forth.
Nick broke into a laugh. "It would have occurred to me if I understood a
little better--!" But he paused, as still too amused.
"If you understood a little better what?"
"Your situation, simply."
Peter looked at him a moment. "Dine with me to-night by ourselves and at
a club. We'll go to the theatre together and then you'll understand it."
"With pleasure, with pleasure: we'll have a jolly evening," said Nick.
"Call it jolly if you like. When did you say she was coming?" Peter
asked.
"Biddy? Oh probably, as I tell you, at any moment."
"I mean the great Miriam," Peter amended.
"The great Miriam, if she's punctual, will be here in about forty
minutes."
"And will she be likely to find your sister?"
"That will depend, my dear fellow, on whether my sister remains to see
her."
"Exactly; but the point's whether you'll allow her to remain, isn't it?"