Why had she put in that about "lovers"? He had never said anything to lead her to think he would say that. She answered herself that it was because she would want him to say it. And if he did say it, what would she answer? She would say—no, she couldn't do that—she would want to say, "Then let us be lovers!" But that was impossible. In her own husband's home!
And what would she think of Philip when she was again in her old world? He, also, was deserving of gratitude. She stamped her foot in the snow. She hated him, hated him, and he would drop out of her life, utterly and forever. She would be glad when she saw the last of him with his seductive eyes. Those eyes—why did he, and not Lawrence, have them? They should have been Lawrence's. It was one more instance of the endless ironic humor of the universe.
Lawrence—Lawrence and her husband! She turned wearily back toward the cabin.
It was nearly noon when she reached home again, and Lawrence, a worried look on his face, was standing in the door of the cabin.
"You beat me back," Claire said, as she approached, and her heart leaped at the look of relief that came into his face.
"Claire, you ought to be punished," he said in gay, tender tones.
"What sentence would you pass, Mr. Judge?" she questioned.
He stepped out toward her.
"Perhaps your fate needs a good washing in cold snow," he laughed.
"Perhaps it does," she said, caressingly. "Do you think you could administer it?"