resisted his mother’s influence. He did not tell her things; there was a distance between them.
Clara was happy, almost sure of him. She felt she had at last got him for herself; and then again came the uncertainty. He told her jestingly of the affair with her husband. Her colour came up, her grey eyes flashed.
“That’s him to a ‘T,’ ” she cried—“like a navvy! He’s not fit for mixing with decent folk.”
“Yet you married him,” he said.
It made her furious that he reminded her.
“I did!” she cried. “But how was I to know!”
“I think he might have been rather nice,” he said.
“You think I made him what he is!” she exclaimed.
“Oh no! he made himself. But there’s something about him——”
Clara looked at her lover closely. There was something in him she hated, a sort of detached criticism of herself, a coldness which made her woman’s soul harden against him.
“And what are you going to do?” she asked.
“How?”
“About Baxter.”
“There’s nothing to do, is there?” he replied.
“You can fight him if you have to, I suppose?” she said.
“No; I haven’t the least sense of the ‘fist.’ It’s funny. With most men there’s the instinct to clench the fist and hit. It’s not so with me. I should want a knife or a pistol or something to fight with.”
“Then you’d better carry something,” she said.
“Nay,” he laughed; “I’m not daggeroso.”
“But he’ll do something to you. You don’t know him.”
“All right,” he said, “we’ll see.”
“And you’ll let him?”
“Perhaps, if I can’t help it.”
“And if he kills you?” she said.
“I should be sorry, for his sake and mine.”
Clara was silent for a moment.
“You do make me angry!” she exclaimed.
“That’s nothing afresh,” he laughed.
“But why are you so silly? You don’t know him.”
“And don’t want.”
“Yes, but you’re not going to let a man do as he likes with you?”
“What must I do?” he replied, laughing.
