The Call of the Blood - Page 12/317

Yet he had been observing this woman closely.

Something unusual, something vital in her had drawn his attention, fixed

it, held it. He knew that, but said to himself that it was the attention

of the novelist that had been grasped by an uncommon human specimen, and

that the man of the world, the diner-out, did not want to eat in company

with a specimen, but to throw off professional cares with a gay little

chatterbox of the Mousmé type. Therefore he came over to be presented to

Hermione with rather a bad grace.

And that introduction was the beginning of the great friendship which was

now troubling him in the fog.

By the end of that evening Hermione and he had entirely rid themselves of

their preconceived notions of each other. She had ceased from imagining

him a walking intellect devoid of sympathies, he from considering her a

possibly interesting specimen, but not the type of woman who could be

agreeable in a man's life. Her naturalness amounted almost to genius. She

was generally unable to be anything but natural, unable not to speak as

she was feeling, unable to feel unsympathetic. She always showed keen

interest when she felt it, and, with transparent sincerity, she at once

began to show to Artois how much interested she was in him. By doing so

she captivated him at once. He would not, perhaps, have been captivated

by the heart without the brains, but the two in combination took

possession of him with an ease which, when the evening was over, but only

then, caused him some astonishment.

Hermione had a divining-rod to discover the heart in another, and she

found out at once that Artois had a big heart as well as a fine

intellect. He was deceptive because he was always ready to show the

latter, and almost always determined to conceal the former. Even to

himself he was not quite frank about his heart, but often strove to

minimize its influence upon him, if not to ignore totally its promptings

and its utterances. Why this was so he could not perhaps have explained

even to himself. It was one of the mysteries of his temperament. From the

first moment of their intercourse Hermione showed to him her conviction

that he had a warm heart, and that it could be relied upon without

hesitation. This piqued but presently delighted, and also soothed

Artois, who was accustomed to be misunderstood, and had often thought he

liked to be misunderstood, but who now found out how pleasant a brilliant

woman's intuition may be, even at a Parisian dinner. Before the evening

was over they knew that they were friends; and friends they had remained

ever since.