He paused, for this was not what he came to say; but he felt an awkwardness in the situation, and the perfect coolness or apparent unconsciousness of Clare put him out, all the more so that now a smile stole over her face.
Vanity and admiration of her beauty had made him dangle so much about Clare, that he felt the time was come when 'something must be done.'
He had come to do that 'something'—to propose, in short; and now, with all his insouciance, he had a doubt that, if it did not give him pain, certainly piqued his pride; and he actually hoped that visitors might interrupt the tête-à-tête.
But he hoped in vain; the hour was too early for callers.
Clare's smile brightened; but there was an undeniable curl on her lovely lip.
He had just enough of lazy tenderness in his manner, with something in his tone and eye which seemed to indicate what he had in view, and yet seemed unmistakably to say: 'I can't act the lover, so why the deuce do I come here to talk nonsense?'
'My mail phaeton is at the door; shall I send for my horse and ring for yours?' he asked.
'Excuse me—I have a headache this morning.'
'So sorry; but, perhaps, you may be better amused at home.'
'How, Major?' asked Clare.