Cabs rolled by, and every one brought Claudia to his fancy, but scores of them passed without pause. One o’clock sounded and no Claudia. Two o’clock, and no Claudia. Then the rumble of a lonely hansom, a slippery stoppage of a horse’s feet, and Claudia’s voice crying, ‘Two doors higher up.’ Then a renewed motion, a pause, the scrape of a latchkey at the lock, and Paul was on his feet, candlestick in hand.
‘Mayn’t I come in?’ asked the hateful voice of Captain MacMadden. ‘On’y a moment, upon my word.’
‘Certainly not,’ Claudia answered curtly. ‘Good-night.’
‘You’ll think of what I asked you?’
‘Indeed,’ said Claudia, in a voice of scorn, ‘I will do nothing of the kind. I have never been so insulted in my life, and I shall be obliged if you will put an end to your attentions.’
The heart of the involuntary listener glowed within him, but Captain MacMadden’s drawl broke in and chilled him horribly.
‘Well, look here, Claudia, damn it all! Will you marry me? I’ll go that far, if nothing else will do for you. I will, upon my word.’
‘You may ask me that question in a week’s time,’ said Claudia. ‘At present I have no more to say to you than just “Good-night.”’
The door closed and there was a silence. Claudia laughed quietly to herself, and rustled towards the gas-jet. Paul stepped out and intercepted her, the unlit candle in his hand, his hair disordered, and his face stained with the dye the rain had soaked from his hat His teeth were chattering noisily and rapidly, and he and Claudia faced each other. Paul lit his candle mechanically, and set it on the hall table, below the jet, which blinked with a faint intermittent hum.
‘Are you spying upon me, Mr. Armstrong? asked Claudia, with a touch of the manner of the stage.