“Miss Claire Biron, sir,” answered Bram.
Mr. Cornthwaite’s face darkened still more.
“What!” cried he in agitation which belied his words. “You believe that my son ever gave that girl a serious thought? And that the daughter of such a father could be a proper match for my son? Absurd! Absurd! Of course, you are a very young man; you have no knowledge of the world. But I should have thought your native shrewdness would have prevented your falling into such a mistake as that.”
Bram said nothing. Mr. Cornthwaite, in spite of the scornful tone he had used, was evidently more anxious than ever to learn whatever Bram had to tell on the subject. After a short silence, therefore, he asked in a quieter tone—
“How came you to get such a notion into your head, Elshaw?”
“I knew that they were fond of each other, sir; and I knew that Miss Biron was a young lady of character, and what you call tact.”
“Tact! Humbug!” said Mr. Cornthwaite shortly. “She is an artful, designing girl, and she and her father have done all in their power to entangle my son. But I foresaw his danger, and now I flatter myself I have saved him. You, I see, have been taken in by the girl’s little mincing ways, just as my son was in danger of being. But I warn you not to have anything to do with them. They are an artful, scheming pair, both father and daughter, and it would be ruin for any man to become connected with them—ruin, I say.”
And he stared anxiously into Bram’s face.
“Has she led you on too?” he asked presently, with great abruptness.
Bram’s face flushed.