After his usual apologies for tardiness, Montague led Mrs. Le Roy in to
dinner, and like the seasoned campaigner he had become, glanced at the
guests for conversational adversaries. His host and hostess were noisy
and given to platitudes; there was a soft-voiced American from the
South who seemed only anxious to be attentive and courteous to the
woman next him; on the other side there was a young woman who was so
consistently effusive that she was the most invited-out guest in
Toronto--but never had a love affair; beside her was a young subaltern
in an obviously new uniform. Montague had a vague idea that he had seen
that well-groomed uninspired face in some bank. And he was right. Less
than six months back the bank manager had written to the General Office
about this youth--"He's a decent enough fellow, but lacking in
initiative."
Just beyond the subaltern Montague saw the finely chiseled features of
Vera Dalton, and for some reason unknown to himself his color mounted
as their eyes met. He had known her in Ottawa, though she had
steadfastly avoided his friends, and later, when her parents had come
to Toronto, he had seen her at odd intervals. He liked to think of her
as an old friend, though there was something about her that made his
flippancy difficult in her presence; but beyond their occasional
meetings at certain houses, neither one had made any attempt to develop
the friendship.
She was fair without being blond, and avoiding the riotous climax of
color so tempting to fair women, she dressed in subtle shades, with
colors suggested rather than displayed. Her face had a poise and a
composure that had nothing in common with placidity; and she was
feminine without being helpless or making a constant sex appeal. She
had always interested Montague, and even though their conversations had
consisted of neatly worded nothings, her memory had a habit of
lingering with him in a way that disturbed his self-admiration. Two
things he felt about her--one, that she disliked him; the other, that
he held some power over her.
He removed his eyes from hers, and, glancing for a moment at the
remaining guests, who sat like a jury with Mr. Le Roy at the end as
foreman, he drained his glass and leaped into the conversational ring
with a vivacious effrontery that was startling. Naturally of high
spirits and easily stimulated by applause, he juggled phrase and
quotation, tossed words into the air, and, as though he were a
conjurer, watched them link together into ideas. He held his listeners
in wonder and challenged them all on subjects ranging from New Thought
to the latest scandal. Once the American held him with a witty retort,
but Montague feinted with an epigram and stabbed him with a paradox. On
one occasion the newly created subaltern, stirred by wine and a certain
courage derived from his khaki, threw a truism into the arena in the
hope that it would trip the talker, but Montague, catching it on the
point of his wit, twirled it about, and hurled it at its source,
laughing as the discomfited young officer retired behind the barriers
of self-conscious silence.
His hearers applauded by look and word, and Mrs. Le Roy whispered to
her servant to keep Montague's glass full.... She was delighted.... She
had never seen him glitter so.
And Montague noted the applause, emptying his glass again and again;
but it was neither wine nor the incense of flattery that had stirred
his pulse to such energy.... In that glance from Vera's eyes he had
read a truth. His power, whatever it was, had mastered her dislike, and
he knew that in the evening before him she would bend in his arms as
the bow yields to the strength of the archer.