Nor did he ask himself why Claudia’s folly should disturb him.
He stopped her the next morning in a corridor which served for a picture-gallery. She had on a white dress, and, with her hands clasped behind her, was standing looking at the portrait of a young girl.
“Who is it by?” she asked. “I don’t know about pictures, but this strikes me as very good.”
“Romney, I believe,” he said; and then abruptly, “Look here, you and I are old friends.”
“Old friends!” Claudia repeated, opening her eyes.
“Older than anybody here, at any rate. And I suppose you’ll own that I’ve knocked about the world more than you? What on earth makes you cram all these people about your business here?”
“I think you are rather rude,” she said, flushing. “If you were in my position, you would understand.”
“Your position! We’re most of us in some sort of position, but we don’t go talking about it all day long. It’s just as if you were ashamed of it.”
“Now I am sure you are rude,” Claudia cried, still redder. “Ashamed, indeed! But I don’t choose to appear as if I were merely a guest. That is not fair upon my employers. I am a professional, a working woman; I am not going to be paid for just driving about and amusing myself like other girls, and unless I make it quite clear, they will insist upon thinking that is what I expect.”
“Of course,” he said, still roughly, “I know well enough what you have in your head, but you needn’t be always cramming it down people’s throats. State the fact, if you insist upon it, and then leave it alone.”