She did not answer at first. She only clasped her small hands and stared at him, with her lips parted, and the tears springing to her eyes. But then she saw something in his face which brought the blood to hers; and she turned quickly away, and pretended to find a difficulty in making her way through the rubbish on the floor.
“Miss Claire!” said he. “Oh, Miss Claire!”
That was the sum and substance of the eloquence he had been teaching himself; of the elaborate and carefully-chosen words which he had so often prepared to meet her with, words which should be respectful and yet affectionate, sufficiently distant, yet not too cold. It had all resolved itself into this hapless, helpless exclamation—
“Miss Claire! Oh, Miss Claire!”
“I’m not surprised to find you here, Bram,” said she with a little touch of growing reserve. “When I heard a noise in here I knew I should find you—just the same.”
There was a very short pause. Then Bram said breathlessly—
“Yes, Miss Claire, you’ll always find me just the same.”
The words, the tone, summed up all the kindness he had ever shown her; all the patient tenderness, the unspeakable, modest goodness she knew so well. Claire’s face quivered all over. Then she burst into a torrent of tears. Bram watched her for a minute in dead silence. Then, not daring so much as to come a step nearer, he whispered hoarsely—
“May I comfort you, Miss Claire, may I dare?”
“Oh, Bram—dear Bram—if you don’t—I shall die!”