And there came into his face that look, that fierce peep out of the primitive north country savage, which had startled Chris himself one memorable night.
Claire saw it, and she grew white as the dead.
“Bram,” cried she hoarsely, “don’t look like that; don’t speak like that. You frighten me!”
But he looked at her with eyes which did not see. This fulfilment of his fears, of his doubts of Chris, was a shock she could not understand.
There was a pause before he was able to speak. Then he repeated vaguely—
“Frightened you, Miss Claire! I didn’t mean to do that!”
But the look on his face had not changed. Claire leaned across the table, touched his sleeve impatiently, timidly.
“Bram,” said she in a shrill voice, sharpened by alarm, “you are to forget it too! Do you hear?”
He turned upon her suddenly.
“No,” said he, “you can’t make me do that!”