They ate in silence save for the occasional necessary word, and afterward went immediately to bed.
Claire soon fell asleep, with the last thought in her mind—to live as she wanted to live she would pay any price!
CHAPTER XVIII.
THE ROMANTIC REALIST.
It was the 1st of May when Lawrence at last found himself alone with Claire and decided to speak. The instant he thought of declaring himself he was surprised at his own mental state. A panic seized him, his heart beat unsteadily, his mouth grew dry, and he could think of nothing to say.
They were out on the lake shore. Philip had left them on his last long trip across the plateau before starting for civilization. The warm spring wind blew around them, laden with scent of pine and flower. At their feet the water rippled and cooed little melodies. Claire sat very still, gazing wistfully at the man beside her. Her heart was a lead weight, and her brain ached with the strain of her problem.
It was late afternoon. All day she had wandered with Lawrence in comparative silence, wishing that he would speak, and observing that something troubled him.
Finally she moved uneasily, took her hand from her cheek, and said half-dreamily, "You aren't a bit talkative."
He gulped, swallowed, and laughed. "I'm too busy trying to think of something to say," he told her amusedly.
"Oh!" She was provoked in the extreme. "Have I ceased to suggest conversation? You are very tired of me, then."