‘Only on the supposition you had not the courage to claim it.’
‘In that case I certainly shouldn’t have the courage to avow the deed afterwards. I don’t understand you, Clara.’
She laughed.
‘That is always your way,’ she said. ‘You take everything so seriously! Why couldn’t I make a proposition without being supposed to mean it?’
{Illustration: “Glued,” she echoed, “What do you mean?"}
I was not satisfied. There was something short of uprightness in the whole tone of her attempted persuasion—which indeed I could hardly believe to have been so lightly intended as she now suggested. The effect of my feeling for her was that of a slight frost on the Spring blossoms.
She had been examining the hilt with a look of interest, and was now for the third time trying to draw the blade from the sheath.
‘It’s no use, Clara,’ I said. ‘It has been too many years glued to the scabbard.’
‘Glued!’ she echoed. ‘What do you mean?’
I did not reply. An expression almost of horror shadowed her face, and at the same moment, to my astonishment, she drew it half-way.