“No, of course they’re not. They’re going all wrong, as usual. More wrong than usual. Johnson takes more advantage than ever of there being nobody to look after him properly.”
Johnson was the farm bailiff, and he had worked all the better for the suggestions sharp-sighted Bram had made to Claire. Since Bram’s banishment Johnson had been rampant again. Claire was quite conscious of this, and she turned to another subject, to allow him no opportunity of applying her comments.
“And you—at least I needn’t ask. You always get on all right, don’t you?”
“I shall come to grief to-morrow,” answered Bram soberly. “I’ve got to go up to the Park to dinner. What do you think of that, Miss Claire? And to wear a black coat and a stiff shirt-front, just like a gentleman! Won’t they all laugh at me when my back’s turned, and talk about daws’ and peacocks’ feathers? It’s all Mr. Christian’s fault, so I suppose you will say it’s all right?”
“It is all right, Bram,” said Claire gravely; “and they won’t laugh at you. They can’t. You’re too modest. And too clever besides.” She paused, dropped her work in her lap, and looked intently at the fire. “Is it true that you’re going to be married, Bram?” she presently asked abruptly.
“Married! Me! Lord, no. Who told you such a thing as that?” And Bram stood up and looked at her, letting his plane lie idle.
“Papa said he thought you were. He said you were engaged to a girl who lived in the country. You never told me about her.”
“And is that why you sent me away?”
At his tone of dismay Claire burst out laughing with her old hilarity.