Clare laughed.
“Not so long as that, surely?”
She came forward to him and put her arm about his neck, and offered him her cheek. He looked at it doubtfully for a moment and then kissed her in a “distant” manner.
“I’m frightfully busy, old boy,” said Clare. “I just have a few minutes and then I shall have to dash off again.”
“Dash off where?” asked Herbert, with signs of extreme irritation. “Dash it all, surely you aren’t going out again?”
“Only round the corner,” said Clare quietly. “I have got to look into the case of a poor creature who is making match-boxes. Goodness knows how many for a farthing! And yet she’s so cheerful and plucky that it does one good to see her. Oh, it kills one’s own selfishness, Herbert.”
“Well, why worry about her, then, if she’s so pleased with herself?”
“She’s plucky,” said Clare, “but she’s starving. It’s a bad case of sweated labor.”
“Sweated humbug,” said Herbert. “What am I going to do all the evening, I should like to know? Sit here alone?”
“I don’t suppose I shall be long,” said Clare. “Besides, there’s mother.”