Sir Basil, having partaken of a pleasant luncheon in the soothing male environs of his club, having dispatched his little errand of charity, and feeling altogether satisfied with himself, returned to his house in Regent’s Terrace that afternoon in a very happy frame of mind. The unpleasant thoughts he had had in the morning about the idiosyncrasies of the female brain had vanished with the clouds. What had begun as a thoroughly miserable day had been transformed between his breast of partridge under glass and the braised pears in champagne, into a brilliant winter day. Drops of moisture sparkled upon the cobblestones still, as he walked (forsaking his carriage) up St. James’s Street and past the great stone steps of the Cathedral. But as he turned into Bond Street, for the short cut to the Terrace, he noticed that all signs of the morning precipitation had disappeared. He had neatly avoided being glimpsed by his sister-in-law and the awful Miss Newsome only a moment from his own door. Evidently immersed in their own gossip, they had vanished chattering into one of the shops before they had spotted him, darting behind a lamp post. The whole world seemed to be out in full swank. Even the dandies parading up and down in their absurd get-ups did not bring the usual snort of contempt to his lips. Somehow everyone and everything looked better than usual this afternoon. Perhaps it was the beneficial effects of knowing he had performed (or at least arranged to perform) a great service for a poor invalid. Perhaps he should do this kind of thing more often. In any case, he was in a splendid state of mind. He practically skipped up the steps to his door and rat-a-tat-tatted upon the knocker very gaily.
But the occupants of the house were evidently not in a mood to match his own. The butler responded to the knock with a very dour look, and when he was asked if anyone had called, only proferred the silver salver with three cards upon it.
“What has got you in such a gloom, Squibb?” inquired Sir Basil, glancing at the names upon the cards. Lord Duff had been, to inquire yet again, no doubt, into his position upon the Slavery Question, and his sister-in-law had called (thank heaven he had not been imposed upon by her) and there was also a card inscribed with the Princess Lieven’s name.
“The cook is indisposed, Your Excellency, and has determined to make our lives miserable.”
“Why, what did she do? Poison the soup?”
“No, Sir Basil. She has been ranting and raving about the pantries all morning.”
“Well, you had better speak to Miss Calder about it. Miss Calder will know how to deal with her.”
“Yes, Your Excellency. But Miss Calder is not at home.”
“No? Why, where has she gone?”
“I do not know, Sir. She and Miss Lessington went off together an hour or two ago. They did not say where they were going.”
“Ah, well—suppose they are off on some errand or other. Wonderful creature, Miss Calder. When they return, ask her to come in and see me, will you? I shall be in my library.”
“Very good, Sir.”
Sir Basil proceeded forthwith into the aforementioned room, dropping the cards onto the salver as he passed. There, comfortably established in an armchair, he stretched out his legs before the fire and recommenced the little novel he had borrowed from Lady Cardovan. Such moments of leisure were very rare in his life, and he took a secret pleasure in the knowledge that the House of Lords was at that moment reconvening without him. Blessed little good it did in any case, when he was there! The old dotards would have their say, eulogizing endlessly the merits of a proper stance against the French trade, and all the while happily pocketing the difference between the cost of free trade articles and the slave industry across the Channel. In the long run, in any case, the matter would not be in their hands, but in his own, the Regent’s, and of course the French Royal House’s. Those few intermediaries, like himself, who would have any real influence in the matter, never spoke before Parliament. It was an unwritten rule that those who did were silent; those who didn’t (or couldn’t) gabbled happily away, oblivious to the fact that no one paid them any mind.
Happy in the knowledge that he was escaping the droning voices of half the peerage, therefore, Sir Basil immersed himself again in his book, and found that upon the second perusal, it had not lost its power to amuse him. Half its merit, of course, lay in the fresh and easy style, a style so down-to-earth and unbeguiled by the sway of self-consciousness that he suspected yet again it had been written by a man. He said as much to Miss Calder, when she looked into the library, following his instructions.
“Ah! Miss Calder!”
“Sir?”
She stood tentatively in the doorway, obviously uncertain whether to come in or stay where she was. Sir Basil rose and gallantly drew forth a chair for her. With a grateful look, she settled down, and the Baronet, returning to his own armchair, could not but notice the glow in her cheek, no doubt a result of walking in the fresh air. The glow belied her rather humble mien, which was unusual. Miss Calder generally marched in like a young Diana, with her head held high and her shoulders back. It was one of the things he had first remarked about her. Today, her whole countenance was softened by something—sadness, perhaps? Ah, and well he knew what the cause of it might be!
“You have been out?” he inquired, rather redundantly, considering that he had been twice informed of the fact.
“Yes, Sir. Nicole and I have been upon an errand.”
“Satisfactory, I hope?”
“Yes, Sir—perfectly.”
“Ah!” Sir Basil gazed at her intently, but she would not meet his eyes, seeming almost to flush. She looked very comely: very. That fine pale blue whatever-it-was became her very well, set off the high colouring of her cheeks and lips, and brought out the sparkle in her eyes. There was something about her that reminded him of a high-bred filly, a spirited and naturally elegant young animal.
“I hope you have not had some bad news from home?”
Now she looked surprised. Aha! Had he hit the nail upon the head? Her surprise, however, was quickly concealed, as he noticed and she turned her face a little away from his gaze.
“No, Sir.”
Really! One could never believe a woman! He must keep in mind the one general rule to use in interpreting their remarks: reverse ’em completely.
Well, well. I have been amusing myself with a novel, Miss Calder. I highly recommend it to you. I do not go in for novels much myself, as a rule, but this one is particularly apt. You must have it when I am through. A most fresh wit, a lively tale—just the thing to distract you from your present distress.”
“Sir?”
Now the poor young woman looked doubly dismayed. Well, he should not press the point, nor give any hint of what steps he had taken to remedy the situation. Let that come as a surprise. Oh, how he should love to see the look upon her face when she discovered! Then, perhaps she should form a higher opinion of him. The glow of anticipated gratitude made Sir Basil smile.
“Come, come, my dear Miss Calder. I hope you have learned to think of me as a friend. You may trust me, you know.”
The young woman smiled, a delightful smile, artless and humourous at once. Did he detect the trace of a blush upon her cheek?
“I do, Sir,” said she earnestly. “I am most grateful to you for all you have done for me, when really I deserve none of your kindness.”
“Ah, well! haven’t done anything much, you know. Only what any man would. And you, Miss Calder, have done a great deal to make my own life happier. Certainly you have been more than kind to Nicole. The child dotes upon you.”
Miss Calder smiled and peered into her lap, where her fingers were twining and untwining rather nervously.
“I am very glad of that, Sir.”
Now there came an awkward silence, during which Sir Basil wondered what he could say next. He supposed the book was a safe enough subject, however, and finally clearing his throat, he said:
“I highly recommend this little novel to your attention, Miss Calder. I should like to hear your opinion of it, for it is very much along your lines, I think. All about a country clergyman, you know, and his insipidity. Lively view of that spectrum of life.”
He did not notice her start.
“And so well written,” continued he, oblivious to her sudden change of colour, for he was lifting up the volume and weighing it in his hands thoughtfully, “that although it is said to have been written ‘by a lady,’ I can only believe that in point of fact it was not, but written by a man.”
“Oh?” Anne looked extremely interested in this idea. “What makes you think so?”
“Well, the objectivity of it, for one thing. I do not believe females are capable of so much distance upon a subject, and the humour is almost masculine.”
“What, if I may be so bold, is masculine humour, Sir Basil?”
“Why, I do not know, in fact,” admitted the Baronet, “though I have the feeling there is such a thing. Perhaps it is the dryness of it. I don’t know. But I have never read anything by a woman that did not portray a life romanticized beyond all recognition. To do so, in my opinion, is to deprive existence of its innate humour.”
“Have you read a great many novels written by women?” inquired Anne, still with the same expression of genuine interest.
“Oh, no—to be sure, not very many. I have not time to read such stuff, you know. I have read Lady Cardovan’s books, at least most of ’em, but they aren’t fictional, after all. More in the line of dramatized history. I find them rather fanciful, but perfectly accurate. She is a devil for documenting every fact. Quite wears one out, her knowledge of dates, places, and battles.”
“And you do not find this book fanciful? And yet you said it was a novel, a made-up story. Is that not more fanciful than the truth, whether or not it is dramatized?”
“Do you know, Miss Calder,” returned Sir Basil, after a moment’s thought, “you have quite puzzled me there. And yet I shall persist in my opinion: This tale, though fanciful, strikes me as a clearer mirror of reality than any of Diana’s books. It shows a thorough knowledge of the idiosyncrasies of human manners and morals. Though it is a very broad comedy—its sole weakness, in my opinion, is the very breadth of it—it manages to retain the seed of truth. The gentleman must have an extraordinary eye.”
“Then you are quite determined that it was written by a man?”
“No doubt about it. I can’t fathom why he should masquerade as a woman, but! ah, well—I suppose he is waiting to see how his little book shall be received before he reveals his identity. I wonder who he is?”
“I am quite as curious as you, Sir, to find out who this clever man could be.”
Did Sir Basil detect a note of sarcasm in her tone? The devil of it! She was as bad as Diana. Perhaps all these women were alike. How odd, though, to take offense at his suggestion that a realistic satire could not be written by a woman. Was there nothing they could admit doing less well than a man?
“I see you think me unduly prejudiced, Miss Calder,” said he, in an attempt to smooth down her ruffled feathers.
“No, sir.”
“Only excessively so?”
Now he was granted a tiny smile.
“It is not my place to say, Sir. You are my employer, I am your ward’s governess. Were we equal in every way, I might tell you what I think, but as it is, I am prevented by my station.”
“Forget that for a moment, Miss Calder. I am tired to death of being reminded of your station. Say what you think, please.”
“I think you are less prejudiced than ignorant, Sir. Excuse me—but you asked me to tell you my honest opinion. It is clear you have not much familiarity with the working of the female brain, much less of its powers. You think we are all foolish, stupid creatures who cannot direct our thoughts to any greater issues than a bonnet or a pelisse. You think we have no view of the world around us, no opinions worth listening to, no morality beyond a superficial kind of etiquette. You dislike us so thoroughly that you will not even grant us a sense of humour! Only a man of your own vast arrogance could have lived upon the earth as long as you have done and still fail to see that half the population of the earth is not deaf, dumb, and half-witted. It is a pity you do not have any idea of how you are regarded by some females!”
“Yourself in particular, I suppose?” Sir Basil’s voice was low and cold, his cheeks pale.
Miss Calder was shaking too violently to reply. With a seeming realization of what she had said, she looked down into her lap and coloured fiercely.
“I beg your pardon, Sir.”
“No, no! Go on, I beg of you!”
“I ought not to have spoken so fiercely. You did not deserve it. I have been worried about another matter, and am not myself.”
“Perhaps you are more yourself, Miss Calder.” Sir Basil hesitated for a moment. “Perhaps you are right. Perhaps you have not underestimated me. But I assure you, whatever my opinion of the rest of your sex, I feel very differently about you. I think you neither deaf nor dumb, and I know you are not half-witted. You are a most intelligent young woman, and I have enjoyed talking to you as much as I have ever enjoyed talking to any man. Indeed, if there were more women like you, I should have a higher opinion of your whole sex.”
“Perhaps you have not known very many of us, Sir Basil. You will grant that Lady Cardovan is an exception to the general rule? And you know her better than any of my sex.”
Now Sir Basil smiled. “Then there are two exceptions to the rule. And perhaps you are right, perhaps I have not made an effort to converse with ladies in any depth. But in all fairness, I must say that there are not many whose ideas I much wanted to hear.”
“Do you find every man of your acquaintance worth listening to?”
“Heavens, no! Far from it!”
“Well, then.”
“Miss Calder, please do not look so condescending.”
“I am not looking condescending.”
“You make me feel like a child.”
“I doubt I am exceptional enough to do that, Sir,” said Anne rising. “I hope you will forget my outburst. Now I must go back to Nicole.”
“Here, take this book, Miss Calder, I shall not have time to read any more today. Tell me if you like it.”
Anne glanced at the book and smiled. She hesitated a moment, and then reached out her hand to take it.
“Thank you, I shall enjoy looking into it.”
“Tell me what you think.”
“I shall try to form a fair opinion of it.”
Miss Calder closed the door behind her, and for a while Sir Basil stared after her with a bemused expression. Then, sighing, he rose to his feet and went to his desk to dispatch a letter to the Paris Embassy.