unspeakable, unlikable, worse than all, unsketchable. a woman has no more formidable rival than her idea in the head of an imaginative young man, and maurice durant had been rash enough to fall in love with miss tancred before sight.

he was rash in everything. when the colonel asked him down to coton manor for a fortnight, he accepted the invitation (with much pleasure) by return, and lay awake half the night with joyous anticipation. he was in the train steaming into the midlands before he realized that he knew nothing of his host beyond a vague family tradition. he was his (durant's) godfather; he was a retired colonel of militia; he had given him (durant) a hideous silver cup; but this was the first time he had given him an invitation. there was something more, too. durant had spent the last seven years exploring every country but his own, and he was out of touch with family tradition; but now he thought of it he had—he certainly had—a distinct recollection of hearing his father say that of all his numerous acquaintance that fellow tancred was quite the most intolerable bore.

he had been a little precipitate. still, he said to himself, england was england, and if there was any fishing on the colonel's land, or a decent mount in his stables, he thought he could pull through. mrs. [pg 222] tancred was dead; he did not certainly know that there was a miss tancred, but if there were he meant to flirt with her, and if the worst came to the worst he could always sketch her (the unsketchable!).

he had had plenty of time for anticipation during the slow journey on the branch line from the junction. the train crawled and burrowed into the wooded heart of the midlands, passed a village, a hamlet, a few scattered houses, puffed and panted through endless lengths of arable and pasture land, drew up exhausted at the little wayside station of whithorn-in-arden, and left him in that prosaic wilderness a prey to the intolerable bore.

as ill-luck would have it, he had arrived at coton manor three hours before dinner. at the first sight of his host he had made up his mind that the colonel would have nothing to say that could possibly keep him going for more than three minutes, yet the colonel had talked for two hours. durant had been counting the buttons on the colonel's waistcoat and the minutes on the drawing-room clock, and wondering when it would be dinnertime. once or twice he had caught himself looking round the room for some sign or token of miss tancred. he believed in her with a blind, unquestioning belief, but beyond a work-basket, a grand piano, and some atrocious water-colors, he could discover no authentic traces of her presence. the room kept its own dull counsel. it was one of those curious provincial interiors that seem somehow to be soulless and sexless in their unfathomable reserve. it was more than comfortable, it was opulent, luxurious; but the divine touch was wanting. it made durant wonder whether there really was a miss tancred, much as you might doubt the existence of a god from the lapses in his creation. still, he believed in her because [pg 223] there was nothing else to believe in. he had gathered from the colonel's conversation that there was no fishing on his land, and no animal in his stables but the respectable and passionless pair that brought him from the station.

could it be that there was no miss tancred?

durant, already veering toward scepticism, had been about to plunge into the depths of bottomless negation when the colonel rose punctually at the stroke of seven.

"my daughter," he had said, "my daughter will be delighted to make your acquaintance."

and durant had replied that he would be delighted to make miss tancred's.

there was nothing else to be delighted about. he had divined pretty clearly that miss tancred's society would be the only entertainment offered to him during his stay, and the most outrageous flirtation would be justifiable in the circumstances; he had seen himself driven to it in sheer desperation and self-defense; he had longed hopelessly, inexpressibly, for the return of the absconding deity; he had looked on miss tancred as his hope, his angel, his deliverer. that she had not been at home to receive him seemed a little odd, but on second thoughts he had been glad of it. he would have distrusted any advances on her part as arguing a certain poverty of personal resource. presumably miss tancred could afford a little indifference, a touch of divine disdain. and if indeed she had used absence as an art to stimulate his devotion, she was to be congratulated on her success. his dream had been nourished on this ambrosial uncertainty.

upstairs in his bedroom mere emotional belief in miss tancred had risen to rational conviction. the first aspect of the guest-chamber had inspired him with [pg 224] a joyous credulity. it wooed him with its large and welcoming light, its four walls were golden white and warm, and in all its details he had found unmistakable evidences of design. there was an overruling coquetry in the decorative effects, in the minute little arrangements for his comfort. a finer hand than any housemaid's must have heaped that blue china bowl with roses, laid out that writing-table, and chosen the books in the shelf beside the bed. a woman is known by her books as by her acquaintance, and he had judged of the mind of this maiden, turning over the pages with a thrill of sensuous curiosity. this charming providence had fitted his mood to perfection with these little classics of the hour, by authors too graceful and urbane to bore a poor mortal with their immortality. adorable miss tancred! he was in love with her before sight, at half-sight.

for at the sound of a punctual gong he had hurried out on to the stairs, a door had opened on some unseen landing, he had heard a woman's step on the flight below; he had listened, he had watched, and as he caught the turn of her head, the rustle and gleam of her gown, some divine and cloudy color, silver or lavender or airy blue, he had been radiantly certain that his vision had passed before him. down there somewhere it was making itself incarnate in the unknown. he felt already its reviving presence, the mysterious aura of its womanhood.

hitherto his imagination had been guided by a profound sense of the justice that is in things. destiny who had brought him to this deceitful place owed him compensation for the fraud, and an apology in person was really no more than his due. what if miss tancred were she, the supremely feminine, destiny herself? [pg 225]

under the echoing gallery the drawing-room had opened and closed upon her, and he had followed, his nerves tingling with the familiar prophetic thrill.

and this was miss tancred?

to begin with, he had never seen a woman more execrably dressed. no doubt it is the first duty of a woman's gown to clothe her, but apparently miss tancred's gown had a puritan conscience, an almost morbid sense of its duty. it more than clothed her, it covered her up as if she had been a guilty secret; there was concealment and disguise in every crease of the awful garment. in its imperishable prudery it refused to define her by ever so innocent a curve; all its folds were implicated in a conspiracy against her sex. the effect, though striking, was obviously unstudied and inevitable, and he argued charitably that miss tancred was attired, not after her own mysterious and perverse fancy, but according to some still more mysterious and perverse doom. happily she seemed unconscious of her appearance, and this unconsciousness had saved her.

for miss tancred was plain; and the irritating thing about her plainness was that it, at any rate, was not inevitable. she had had a hair's-breadth escape of being handsome in a somewhat original and eccentric way. and so her plainness was insistent; it would not let you alone, but forced you to look at it, worrying you with perpetual suggestions of the beauty it might have been. her black hair grew low on the center of her forehead, whence it rose describing a semicircle above each temple; she had a short and salient roman nose, black eyes, and straight black brows laid like an accent on the jutting eyebones. her mouth—there might have been hope for her in her mouth, but for its singular unreadiness to smile; there was no hope for [pg 226] her in her sallow skin, the dull droop of her eyelids, her whole insupportable air of secrecy and reserve. a woman has no business to look like that.

there could be no hope for any woman whom maurice durant had pronounced unsketchable. he was tolerant with the tolerance of a clever young modern painter, trained to look for beauty (and find it, too) in the most unlikely places. he could find no beauty in miss tancred. she was useless for his purposes. those lips had never learned to flirt, to chatter, to sing, to do anything spontaneous and natural and pleasing.

he shook hands with her in a paralytic manner, battering his brains for a reply to her polite commonplaces. inwardly he was furious. he felt that he had been duped, tricked, infamously cheated of his legitimate desire; and he hated the woman as if she, poor soul, had been personally responsible.

it had bored him to listen to the colonel, and he was sure it would bore him still more to talk to miss tancred; but for ten minutes he did his best to sustain a miraculous flow of sparkling monologue. if miss tancred was going to bore him, at any rate it would not be by her conversation. some plain women he had known who had overcome plainness by vivacity and charm. not so miss tancred. being plainer than most she was bound to make a more than ordinary effort, yet she had adopted the ways of a consummately pretty woman who knows that nothing further is required of her. did she think that he would go on forever battering his brains to create conversation out of nothing, when she clearly intimated that it was not worth her while to help him? never in his life had he met a woman who inspired him with such invincible repugnance. he found himself talking to her at random like a man in a dream, and so indifferent to her opinion that he was [pg 227] not in the least distressed at his own imbecility; and miss tancred, like a lady in a dream, seemed to find his attitude entirely natural; perhaps she had read a similar antagonism in the faces of other men. (as it happened, repugnance was an emotion that durant had frequently felt before, and certain emphatic lines about his nose and mouth had apparently been drawn there on purpose to express it.) anyhow, miss tancred made no attempt to engage his attention, but turned her dull eyes to the colonel, as if appealing to him to take the burden of durant's entertainment on his own shoulders.

this the colonel was perfectly prepared to do. it was evidently an understood thing that miss tancred should sit there, in that depressing attitude, while her father monopolized their guest. durant hastily classified his host and hostess as the bore active and the bore passive. if miss tancred had ever had any interest or property in life she seemed to have made it over to the colonel, together with a considerable portion of her youth. the colonel wore his sixty years well out of sight, like an undergarment; you even felt that there might be something slightly indecorous in the suggestion that he wore them at all. he was alive to the finger-tips, alive in every feature of his aristocratic little face. he seemed at first rather uncertain how to take durant, and looked him up and down as if in search of a convenient button-hole; he smiled innocently on the young man (durant soon learned to know and dread that smile); nothing could have been more delicate and tentative than his approach. he had been silent for the last few minutes, lying low behind a number of the nineteenth century, for if he were a bore he had the dangerous power of masking his deadly qualities in an unreal absorption. at the signal that followed [pg 228] durant's last desperate remark the colonel's tongue leaped as from an ambush.

his first conversational maneuver was a feint. he inquired, with a certain affected indifference, what sort of weather durant had met with on the journey down, and what sort he had left behind him in london; and then he seemed inclined to let the weather drop. but before durant could get a word in edgeways he had taken it up again and was handling it like a master. now he was playing with it, hovering round it lightly, with a tantalizing approach and flight; now he had gripped it tight, there was no more wandering from the point than may be seen in the vacillations of a well-behaved barometer; the slender topic seemed to grow under his touch, to take on the proportions of his own enormous egotism; he spoke of last autumn and the next parish as if he were dealing with immensities of time and space. and now the colonel was merged and lost in his theme; he was whirled along with the stream of things, with moons and meteors, winds and tides, never for an instant compromising his character as a well-behaved barometer.

never for an instant forgetting that he was a tancred, with a pedigree dating from the days of feudalism. and after all he looked such a gentle little fellow that durant could almost have forgiven him. he was so beautifully finished off. you could only say of him that he was fastidious, he had the prejudices of his class. he scorned to make conversation a sordid traffic in ideas. at any rate, durant felt himself released from all obligation to contribute his share.

he had given it up, and was wondering how on earth they were to get through the evening. various dreadful possibilities occurred to him; music (miss tancred and beethoven on the grand piano); family prayers; [pg 229] cards; in some places they sat up half the night playing whist, a game that bored him to extinction. thank heaven, as there were but three of them, it would not be whist. meanwhile it was past eight and no dinner bell.

as if in answer to his thoughts the colonel turned sharply to his daughter.

"frida, are you sure that you wrote to mrs. fazakerly?"

"quite sure."

"and are you equally certain that she is coming?"

"quite certain. unless she has been taken ill."

"what did you say? taken ill? taken ill?"

"i did not say she was taken ill, papa; i said nothing but illness would keep her from coming."

"ah, a very different thing." he turned to durant, blushing and bridling in his stiff collar as if the important distinction had been a subtlety of his own.

he curled himself up in his chair, and durant caught him smiling to himself, a contemplative, almost voluptuous smile; was it at the prospect of another victim?

who the devil, he wondered, is mrs. fazakerly?