He walked back into the kitchen, which, being the least frequented by the fastidious Theodore, was Bram’s favorite part of the house. In a few moments Claire came softly in after him. She seemed rather constrained, rather stiff, and this made Bram very careful, very subdued. But there was a delicious peace, a new hope in his own heart; she had rested within the shelter of his arms; she had been comforted there.
“You ought not to have come this evening, Bram,” she said with studied primness. “You know, I told you that before. It only makes things worse for me, it does really.”
“Now, how can you make that out?” asked Bram bluntly.
“Why, papa will be all the angrier with me afterwards. As for—for what you saw him do, I don’t care a bit. It makes me angry for the time, and just gives me spirit enough to hold out when he wants me to do anything I won’t do, I can’t do.”
“What was it he wanted you to do?” asked Bram, grinding his teeth.
Claire hesitated. She grew crimson again, and the tears rushed once more to her eyes.
“I’d rather not tell you.” Then as she noticed the expression on Bram’s face grow darker and more menacing, she went on quickly—“Well, it was only that he wanted me to go up to Holme Park again to-night—with a note—the usual note. And that I can’t—now!”
Bram’s heart sank. Of course, she meant that it was the engagement of Chris which made this difference. But why should this be, if she did not care for him? Bram came nearer to her, leaned on the table, and looked into her face. What an endless fascination the little features had for him. When she looked down, as she did now, he never knew what would be the expression of her brown eyes when she looked up, whether they would dance with fun, or touch him by a queer, dreamy, expression, or whether there would be in them such infinite sadness that he would be forced into silent sympathy. Bram waited impatiently for her to look up.
As he came nearer and nearer, she still looking down, but conscious of his approach, a new thought came into his mind, a cruel, a bitter thought. Suddenly he stood up, still leaning over the corner of the table.
“Are you what they call a coquette, Miss Claire?” he asked with blunt earnestness.