Clare said nothing, but walked along with her head rather high, looking straight before her. It had all happened before her eyes, on the very ground under her feet, on that platform. Johnstone knew that he had spoken roughly.
“I say,” he began, “was I rude? I’m awfully sorry.” Clare stopped and stood still.
“Mr. Johnstone, we sha’n’t agree. I will never tell you, and you will never be satisfied unless I do. So it’s a dead-lock.”
“You are horribly unjust,” answered Brook, very much in earnest, and fixing his bright eyes on hers. “You seem to take a delight in tormenting me with this imaginary secret. After all, if it’s something you saw me do, or heard me say, I must know of it and remember it, so there’s no earthly reason why we shouldn’t discuss it.”
There was again that fascination in his eyes, and she felt herself yielding.
“I’ll say one thing,” she said. “I wish you hadn’t done it!”
She felt that she could not look away from him, and that he was getting her into his power. The colour rose in her face.
“Please don’t look at me!” she said suddenly, gazing helplessly into his eyes, but his steady look did not change.
“Please—oh, please look away!” she cried, half-frightened and growing pale again.
He turned from her, surprised at her manner.