“I will not be decked up for the sacrifice!” she muttered rebelliously, then bent forward, so that her face approached close to the flushed, frowning reflection in the glass. “You are going to be proposed to, my dear!” she said scornfully. “You are going to be good and sensible, and say ‘Yes, please!’ When you see yourself next, you will be Engaged! It won’t be dear little Claire Gifford any more, it will be the horrible future Mrs Robert Judge!”
She stuck hat-pins through the straw hat with savage energy; for once in her life noticed with distinct satisfaction that it was secured at an unbecoming angle, then, hearing through the jalousies the sound of approaching wheels, marched resolutely forth to meet her fate...
In the fiacre Mrs Gifford and Miss Benson took the seats of honour, leaving Claire and Mr Judge to sit side by side, and the one furtive glance which she cast in his direction showed him looking confident and unperturbed. Just like a French prétendu, already assured by Maman that Mademoiselle was meekly waiting to assent to his suit!
“He might at least pay me the compliment of pretending! It is dreadfully dull to be taken for granted,” reflected Claire in disgust.
The next hour was a horrible experience. Everything happened exactly as Claire had known it would, from the moment the quartette set forth. Arrived at the forest, they took possession of one of the little tables beneath the trees, and made fitful conversation the while they consumed delicious cakes and execrable tea. Then the meal being finished, Mrs Gifford and her companion announced a wish to sit still and rest, while Mr Judge nervously invited Miss Claire to accompany him in a walk. She assented, of course; what was the use of putting it off? and as soon as they were well started, he spied another seat, and insisted upon sitting down once more.
“Now he’ll begin,” thought Claire desperately. “He’ll talk about India, and being lonely, and say how happy he has felt since he’s been here,” and even as the thought passed through her mind, Mr Judge began to speak.
“Awfully jolly old forest this is—awfully nice place Brussels, altogether. Nicest place in the world. Never been so happy in my life as I’ve been the last month. Of course, naturally, you must realise that, when a fellow hangs on week after week, there—er, there must be some special attraction. Not that it isn’t a rattling old city, and all that!” Mr Judge was growing a little mixed: his voice sounded flurried and nervous, but Claire was not in the least inclined to help him. She sat rigid as a poker, staring stolidly ahead. There was not the ghost of a dimple in her soft pink cheeks.
“I—er, your mother tells me that she has said nothing to you, but she is sure, all the same, that you suspect. I asked her to let me speak to you to-day. Naturally she feels the difficulty. She is devoted to you. You know that, of course. I have told her that I will make your happiness my special charge. There is nothing in the world I would not do to ensure it. You know that too, don’t you, Claire?”
He stretched out his hand and touched her tentatively on the arm, but Claire drew herself back with a prickly dignity. If he wanted to propose at all, he must propose properly; she was not going to commit herself in response to an insinuation.
“You are very kind. I am quite happy as I am.”