Then Claire threw up both her hands, and burst into a wild peal of laughter. Peal after peal rang out into the air, she rocked to and fro on her seat, her eyes disappeared from view, her teeth shone, her little feet in their dainty French shoes danced upon the ground; she laughed till the tears poured down her cheeks, and her gloved hands pressed against her side where a “stitch” was uncomfortably making itself felt. Stout Belgian couples passing past the end of the avenue, looked on with indulgent smiles, a little shocked at so much demonstration in public, but relieved to perceive that une Anglaise could laugh with such abandon. Monsieur they observed looked not sympathetic. Monsieur had an air injured, annoyed, on his dignity. On his cheeks was a flush, as of wounded pride. When at length the paroxysm showed signs of lessening, he spoke in cold stilted tones.
“You appear to find it ridiculous. It seems to amuse you very much. I may say that to us it is a serious matter!”
“Oh no! You don’t understand—you don’t understand!” gasped Claire feebly. “I am not laughing at you. I’m laughing at myself. Oh, Mr Judge, you’ll never guess, it’s too screamingly funny for words. I thought all this time, from the very beginning I thought, it was me!”
“You thought it was—you thought I wanted—that I was talking of—that I meant to propose to—”
“Yes! Yes! Yes! Me! Me! Me! Of course I did. I’ve been thinking it for weeks. Everyone thought so. They’ve teased me to death. You were attentive to me, you know you were. You were always giving me things ...”
“Well, of course!” Poor Mr Judge defended himself with honest indignation. “What else could I do? I could not give them to her! And I wanted—naturally I wanted, to get you on my side. You were the difficulty. I knew that if she had only herself to consider I could win her round, but if you ranged yourself against me, it would be a hard fight. Naturally I tried to ingratiate myself. It appears that I have rather overdone the part, but I can’t flatter myself,” his eyes twinkled mischievously, “that I’ve been too successful! You don’t appear exactly overcome with disappointment!”
They laughed together, but only for a moment. Then he was serious again, appealing to her in earnest tones.
“You won’t range yourself against me, Claire? You won’t dissuade her.—I love her very dearly, and I know I can make her happy. You won’t make it hard for us?”
“Indeed, I won’t! Why should I?” Claire cried heartily. “I’m only too thankful. Mother needs someone to look after her, and I’d sooner you did it than anyone else. I like you awfully—always did, until I began to be afraid—I didn’t want to marry you myself, but if mother does, I think it’s a splendid thing.”
“Thank you, dear, thank you a thousand times. That’s a great relief.” Robert Judge stretched himself with a deep breath of satisfaction. Then he grew confidential, reviewing the past with true lover-like enjoyment.