The Nonentity
by
I
“It is well known that those fight hardest who fight in vain,” remarked Lord Ronald Prior complacently. “But I should have thought a woman of your intellect would have known better. It’s such a rank waste of energy to struggle against Fate.”
He spoke in the easy drawl habitual to him. His grey eyes held the pleasant smile that was seldom absent from them. Not in any fashion a striking personality, this; his kindest friend could not have called him imposing, nor could the most uncharitable have described him as anything worse than dull. Enemies he had none. His invariable good temper was his safeguard in this particular. The most offensive remark would not have provoked more than momentarily raised eyebrows.
He was positively characterless, so Beryl Denvers told herself a dozen times a day. How could she possibly marry any one so neutral? And yet in his amiable, exasperatingly placid fashion he had for some time been laying siege to her affections. He had shaved off his beard because he had heard her say that she objected to hairy men, and he seemed to think that this sacrifice on his part entitled him to a larger share of her favour than the rest of the world, certainly much more than she was disposed to bestow.
He had, in fact, assumed almost an air of proprietorship over her of late–a state of affairs which she strongly resented, but was powerless to alter. He had a little money, but no prospects to mention, and had never done anything worth doing in all his five-and-thirty years. And yet he seemed to think himself an eligible parti for one of the most popular women in the district. His social position gave him a certain precedence among her other admirers, but Beryl herself refused to recognise this. She thought him presumptuous, and snubbed him accordingly.
But Lord Ronald’s courtship seemed to thrive upon snubs. He was never in the least disconcerted thereby. He hadn’t the brains to take offence, she told herself impatiently, and yet somewhere at the back of her mind there lurked a vagrant suspicion that he was not always as obtuse as he seemed.
She had been rude to him on the present occasion and he had retaliated with his smiling speech regarding her intellect which had made her feel vaguely uncomfortable. It might have been–it probably was–an effort at bluff on his part, but, uttered by any other man, it would have had almost a hectoring sound.
“I haven’t the smallest notion what you mean,” she said, after a decided pause.
“Charmed to explain,” he murmured.
“Pray don’t trouble!” she rejoined severely. “It doesn’t signify in the least. Explanations always bore me.”
Lord Ronald smiled his imperturbable smile and flicked a gnat from his sleeve.
“Especially when they are futile, eh, Mrs. Denvers? I’m not fond of ’em myself. Haven’t much ability for that sort of thing.”
“Have you any ability for anything, I wonder?” she said.
He turned his smooth, good-humoured countenance towards her. It wore a speculative look, as though he were wondering if by any chance she could have meant to be nasty.
“Oh, rather!” he said. “I can do quite a lot of things–and decently, too–from boiling potatoes to taming snakes. Never heard me play the cornet, have you?”
Beryl remarked somewhat unnecessarily that she detested the cornet. She seemed to be thoroughly exasperated with him for some reason, and evidently wished that he would take his leave. But this fact had not apparently yet penetrated to Lord Ronald’s understanding, for he was the most obliging of men at all times, and surely would never have dreamed of intruding his presence where it was unwelcome.
He sat on his favourite perch, the music-stool, and swung himself gently to and fro while he mildly upheld the virtues of the instrument she had slighted.
“I was asked to perform at a smoker the other night at the barracks,” he said. “The men seemed to enjoy it immensely.”