“What a toy I am to you, Richard,” she said idly; “what a toy you like to make of me.”
“The most exquisite toy that ever came into the life of a sad and lonely man,” he said, with a return to his old manner, and he took her hand and began to play with the bangle on her wrist. He handled her much as he would handle his terra-cotta statuettes, and for a while she endured it, but presently sprang away and went to stand at the window where she might look out upon the prospect of shining snow.
“Always looking out, Clare? what liberty do you see out there? you think I ought to let you go, little caged bird, but you would soon perish,—your pretty limbs wouldn’t stand the cold,—better stay happily where you are, believe me,—don’t fret,—come back to me,—let me whisper how precious you are,—come back to our lovely idleness.”
“But I don’t like idleness, Richard; no use pretending I do; you should not have married some one so restless as I.” His hands were upon her shoulders; she wanted to shake them off.
“Did the poacher ...” began Calladine.
“Ah, leave Lovel alone,” she cried; “what impels you to speak of him this morning? Leave him alone, with his wife and his baby; they can very well look after themselves without any interest from us.”
“But, Clare, Mrs. Quince was speaking of them; it’s only natural that my thoughts should continue to run in that direction; and even you yourself....”
“You’re fascinated by the subject of Lovel,” she said, whirling round on him, “now, aren’t you? own to it. You always bring him in: the Downs, the circus, and now his baby,—everything’s an excuse for bringing in Lovel. And why? Is it because he took me out of the circus-tent that night? is it because I rode with him? why not speak out what’s at the back of your mind?”
“But, Clare, Clare! why so fierce and challenging suddenly? there’s nothing at the back of my mind.” (“There is,” she thought, “and you too great a coward to face it out.”) “Come now, don’t let us quarrel and we won’t speak of Lovel if it offends you,—will that satisfy you?”