“I believe the air of this place doesn’t suit you. Why shouldn’t we go away at once?”
Mrs. Bowring shook her head and protested energetically.
“No—oh no! I wouldn’t go away for anything. I like the place immensely, and we are both getting perfectly well here. Oh no! I wouldn’t think of going away.”
Clare leaned back in her seat again. She was devotedly fond of her mother, and she could not but see that something was wrong. In spite of what she said, Mrs. Bowring was certainly not growing stronger, though she was not exactly ill. The pale face was paler, and there was a worn and restless look in the long-suffering, almost colourless eyes.
“I’m sorry I made such a fuss about Mr. Johnstone,” said Clare softly, after a short pause.
“No, darling,” answered her mother instantly. “I dare say I have been a little over careful. I don’t know—I had a sort of presentiment that you might take a fancy to him.”
“I know. You said so the first day. But I sha’n’t, mother. You need not be at all afraid. He is not at all the sort of man to whom I should ever take a fancy, as you call it.”
“I don’t see why not,” said Mrs. Bowring thoughtfully.
“Of course—it’s hard to explain.” Clare smiled. “But if that is what you are afraid of, you can leave us alone all day. My ‘fancy’ would be quite, quite different.”
“Very well, darling. At all events, I’ll try not to turn into a duenna.”