“Wish it? No! Certainly not! But if it should happen naturally, by accident, I should not get up and run away. I’m not afraid of the man, as you seem to be. What can he do to me? And you have no idea how strangely you behave, and what ridiculous excuses you invent for me. The other day you insisted on my going in to look for a train in the time-tables when you know we haven’t the slightest intention of going away for ever so long. Really—you’re turning into a perfect duenna. I wish you would behave naturally, as you always used to do.”
“I think you exaggerate,” said Mrs. Bowring. “I never leave you alone with men you hardly know—”
“You can’t exactly say that we hardly know Mr. Johnstone, when he has been with us, morning, noon, and night, for nearly a week, mother.”
“My dear, we know nothing about him—”
“If you are so anxious to know his father’s Christian name, ask him. It wouldn’t seem at all odd. I will, if you like.”
“Don’t!” cried Mrs. Bowring, with unusual energy. “I mean,” she added in a lower tone and looking away, “it would be very rude—he would think it very strange. In fact, it is merely idle curiosity on my part—really, I would much rather not know.”
Clare looked at her mother in surprise.
“How oddly you talk!” she exclaimed. Then her tone changed. “Mother dear—is anything the matter? You don’t seem quite—what shall I say? Are you suffering, dearest? Has anything happened?”
She dropped her work, and leaned forward, her hand on her mother’s, and gazing into her face with a look of anxiety.
“No, dear,” answered Mrs. Bowring. “No, no—it’s nothing. Perhaps I’m a little nervous—that’s all.”