He kissed Claire. That is to say, technically the thing was a kiss. But it was not the kiss of other days.
“What’s up?” asked Claire, hurt.
“Nothing’s up.”
“Yes, there is something up.”
“No, there ain’t anything up.”
“Yes, there is.”
“No, there ain’t.”
“Well, then,” said Claire, “what’s up?”
These intellectual exchanges seemed to have the effect of cementing Mr. Todhunter’s gloom. He relapsed into a dark silence, and Claire, her chin dangerously elevated, prepared tea.
Tea did not thaw the guest. He ate a muffin, sampled the cake and drank deeply; but he still remained that strange, moody figure who rather reminded Claire of the old earl in Hearts Aflame. But then the old earl had had good reason for looking like a man who has drained the wine of life and is now unwillingly facing the lees, because he had driven his only daughter from his door, and though mistaken in this view, supposed that she had died of consumption in Australia. (It was really another girl.) But why Hash should look like one who has drained the four ale of life and found a dead mouse at the bottom of the pewter, Claire did not know, and she quivered with a sense of injury.