Elsbeth rose. She was furious with herself that her lips must tremble and her hands shake, as she gathered up scarf and reticule; but she followed her hostess with sufficient dignity.
Clare flung open the door with a gesture a shade too ample.
Elsbeth laughed tremulously as she passed her and crossed the hall.
"Oh, you are not altered," she said, and bent to fumble at the latch. "But it doesn't impress me. You've not won yet. You count too much on Alwynne. And you have still to reckon with Mr. Lumsden."
"And his three acres and a cow!" Clare watched her contemptuously. It did not seem worth while to keep her dignity with Elsbeth. She felt that it would be a relief to lose her temper completely, to override this opponent by sheer, crude invective. She let herself go.
"What a fool you are! Do you flatter yourself that you understand Alwynne? Go back to your Cœlebs and tell him from Alwynne—I tell you I speak for Alwynne—that he's wasting his time. Let him take his goods to another market: Alwynne won't buy. I've other plans for her—she has other plans for yourself. She doesn't want a husband. She doesn't want a home. She doesn't want children. She wants me—and all I stand for. She wants to use her talents—and she shall—through me. She wants success—she shall have it—through me. She wants friendship—can't I give it? Affection? Haven't I given it? What more can she want? A home? I'm well off. A brat to play with? Let her adopt one, and I'll house it. I'll give her anything she wants. What more can your man offer? But I won't let her go. I tell you, we suffice each other. Thank God, there are some women who can do without marriage—marriage—marriage!"
Elsbeth, as if she heard nothing, tugged at the catch. The door swung open, and she stepped quietly into the sunny passage. Then she turned to Clare, a grey, angry shadow in the dusk of the hall.
"Poor Clare!" she said. "Are the grapes very sour?"
She pulled-to the door behind her.