“If not?” he said, perceiving his advantage, and pushing it.
Claudia took refuge in petulancy.
“Why on earth must one explain why one does this, or doesn’t do that? What do you complain of? That I haven’t talked over my ideas with you? Very well, I will talk now. I suppose you have happened to notice a big group of firs, the only fine thing about the place?” And she flourished the note-book Miss Arbuthnot found so obnoxious. “There! As no one can see them unless they go to look, I suggest making a clean sweep of those worthless trees in front, then—”
He put up his hand.
“Spare me; I don’t want detail.”
“Very well,” said Claudia triumphantly. “Then you mustn’t complain.”
“You have run off the track. All that has nothing to do with my complaint. I am anxious, very anxious, to be told what—if you were really not offended at my plain speaking—has altered you towards me.” His voice changed, there crept into it a thrill which made Claudia miserably conscious of what might be at hand. She frowned and stared straight before her. “You don’t know,” he was saying, “how I have looked forward to a chance like this, when I might have you to myself, and now I can hardly get a glance. And yet you are not offended? Then why are you so different from what you were ten days ago?”
“How can one always be exactly the same?” she asked coldly. “Besides, you are exaggerating; I don’t feel any change.”
“Oh yes, you do. Something has brought it about. Some confounded tongues have been tattling.”
“Tattling!” repeated Claudia, frowning harder.