If Claudia had been mortified by his plain speaking, there was no doubt that she took the lesson to heart. There was no more of that somewhat masterful enthusiasm with which she had up to this time indulged her hearers. She became, instead, extremely reticent, and not an allusion to the college or to professional duties passed her lips. Fenwick was half pleased, half vexed, because this was not the Claudia he knew. He found himself thinking of her with persistence which amazed him. He could not flatter himself that she was angry with him, but would have welcomed her anger as proof that in some way or another he affected her. Why did he not? He raged at the thought of caring that he should, but he could not deny her indifference.
The days went by; Claudia still kept her word. She went quietly about the work she had in hand, but would not talk of it—even to Fenwick. This annoyed him, and one evening he threw himself into a chair by her side, and told her so.
“Women always go into extremes,” he grumbled, when he had made his complaint.
Claudia looked at him and laughed.
“I never knew any one so difficult to please,” she said. “I thought I was carrying out my lessons.”
“So you are,” he replied impatiently, “but you needn’t practise your lessons upon everybody. I ought to be an exception.”
“Why?”
“Because I am not a stranger like these other people.”
“Oh,” said Claudia, laughing still more unfeelingly; “I never knew any one make quite so much out of a fortnight before! Wasn’t it a fortnight that you had known me?”
“I believe I have known you always,” he returned hardily. “Days—weeks—what have they to do with the matter?”