"You will come without fail on Monday morning."
"Very well."
Her manner was so studiously cold and ceremonious, so sharply in contrast with her former piquant friendliness, that Mr. Ronald looked up in surprise.
"It is convenient for you to come on Monday, I hope?"
"Perfectly."
"I presume my sister, Mrs. Sherman, will take up with you the question of—er—compensation."
"O—" quickly, with a little shudder, "that's all right!"
"If it isn't all right, it shall be made so," said Mr. Ronald cordially.
Claire winced. "It is quite, it is perfectly all right!" she repeated hurriedly, anxious to escape the distasteful subject, still smarting under the lash of her own self-condemnation—her own wounded pride.
How could she have forgotten, even for a moment, that she was no longer in a position to deal with these people on equal terms? That now, kindness on their part meant patronage, on hers presumption. Of course, she deserved the snub she had received. But, all the same, it hurt! O, but it hurt! She knew her George Eliot well. It was a pity she did not recall and apply a certain passage in Maggie Tulliver's experience.