When Clare and her mother had established themselves as usual on the terrace under the vines that afternoon, Brook came and sat beside them for a while. Mrs. Bowring liked him and talked easily with him, but Clare was silent and seemed absent-minded. The young man looked at her from time to time with curiosity, for he was not used to being treated with such perfect indifference as she showed to him. He was not spoilt, as the phrase goes, but he had always been accustomed to a certain amount of attention, when he met new people, and, without being in the least annoyed, he thought it strange that this particular young lady should seem not even to listen to what he said.
Mrs. Bowring, on the other hand, scarcely took her eyes from his face after the first ten minutes, and not a word he spoke escaped her. By contrast with her daughter’s behaviour, her earnest attention was very noticeable. By degrees she began to ask him questions about himself.
“Do you expect your people to-morrow?” she inquired.
Clare looked up quickly. It was very unlike her mother to show even that small amount of curiosity about a stranger. It was clear that Mrs. Bowring had conceived a sudden liking for the young man.
“They were to have been here to-day,” he answered indifferently. “They may come this evening, I suppose, but they have not even ordered rooms. I asked the man there—the owner of the place, I suppose he is.”
“Then of course you will wait for them,” suggested Mrs. Bowring.
“Yes. It’s an awful bore, too. That is—” he corrected himself hastily—“I mean, if I were to be here without a soul to speak to, you know. Of course, it’s different, this way.”
“How?” asked Mrs. Bowring, with a brighter smile than Clare had seen on her face for a long time.
“Oh, because you are so kind as to let me talk to you,” answered the young man, without the least embarrassment.
“Then you are a social person?” Mrs. Bowring laughed a little. “You don’t like to be alone?”