Clara’s ear caught the sound of a well-known footfall on the stairs.
“You are Bertha Vale?” said she.
“Yes.”
“Sit in that recess, and be silent.”
Summoning all the fortitude of her nature, Clara resumed the book which she had dropped on the entrance of the stranger, and threw herself, in a careless attitude, on the sofa. She was glad of its support—for it seemed to her she should sink to the ground. Brentford entered, and approached her with some playful speech. But as he crossed the floor, his eye fell on the shadow of the figure in the recess. He looked at it and stood aghast. Then in a voice tremulous with passion, he cried,
“How on earth came you here?”
She made no reply, and Clara said, very calmly,
“Why should the lady not be here? She called to see me.”
“You called to see her!” he exclaimed, advancing toward the intruder, and glaring fiercely on her, “You shall not see her, you shall not speak a word to her! Get you hence!”
She rose, saying simply, “I am ready to go.”