“You must care for what you can get in this world,” said Bram sententiously.
“Well, tell me something more. Is she tall or short, fair or dark? Has she blue eyes, or gray ones, or brown?”
Bram looked thoughtful.
“Well, she’s neither tall nor short. She’s not very dark, nor yet very fair. And her eyes are a sort of drab color, I think.”
“You don’t mean it, Bram? I suppose you think it’s no business of mine?”
“That’s it, Miss Claire.”
“I don’t believe in the existence of this girl with the drab-colored eyes, Bram.”
Claire had jumped up, and darted across to the table in her old impulsive way; and now she stood, her eyes dancing with suppressed mirth, just as she used to stand in the good old days before the rupture of her own making.
Bram was delighted at the change.
“Well, I won’t say whether she exists or not,” replied he with a smile lurking about his own mouth; “and I don’t choose to have my love affairs pried into by anybody, I don’t care who. How would you like people to pry into yours?”