“It’s quite true,” she said. “It is hot indoors. I don’t think I shall write, after all.”
Brook Johnstone could not help smiling a little, though he turned away his face to hide his amusement. It was so perfectly evident that Mrs. Bowring was determined not to leave Clare alone with him that he must have been blind not to see it. Clare saw the smile, and was angry. She was nineteen years old, she had been out in the world, the terrace was a public place, Johnstone was a gentleman, and the whole thing was absurd. She took up her work and closed her lips tightly.
Johnstone felt the awkwardness, rose suddenly, and said he would go for a walk. Clare raised her eyes and nodded as he lifted his hat. He was still smiling, and her resentment deepened. A moment later, mother and daughter were alone. Clare did not lay down her work, nor look up when she spoke.
“Really, mother, it’s too absurd!” she exclaimed, and a little colour came to her cheeks.
“What is absurd, my dear?” asked Mrs. Bowring, affecting not to understand.
“Your abject fear of leaving me for five minutes with Mr. Johnstone. I’m not a baby. He was laughing. I was positively ashamed! What do you suppose could have happened, if you had gone in and written your letters and left us quietly here? And it happens every day, you know! If you want a glass of water, I have to go in with you.”
“My dear! What an exaggeration!”
“It’s not an exaggeration, mother—really. You know that you wouldn’t leave me with him for five minutes, for anything in the world.”
“Do you wish to be left alone with him, my dear?” asked Mrs. Bowring, rather abruptly.
Clare was indignant.