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It was more than a week before Claire was sufficiently recovered to go out and attend to business as usual. At the first opportunity, he called upon Mr. Jasper, who received him with marked kindness of manner. "I do not, now," said the merchant, "entertain the same views in regard to my ward that I did some time ago.
Claire went with her, and tried valiantly not to cry as she fastened buttons and hooks, and realised how long it might be before she next waited on her mother. Mrs Judge was tearful, too, and the two knew a bitter moment as they clung together for the real farewell before rejoining the guests. "I've been careless; I've made a mess of things.
To think a man has to such things. CLAIRE: I'm going to let him in. Though I like his looks out there. HARRY: Thank heaven the door's coming open. Somebody can go for salt, and we can have our eggs. CLAIRE: And open the door again to let the salt in? No. If you insist on salt, tell Tom now to go back and get it. It's a stormy morning and there'll be just one opening of the door.
Claire must have fixed it himself for I found it locked tighter than a drum, but I accidentally found on the but'ry shelf a rusty old key, that fits it to a T. I've been in here once and bein' you're his kin," nodding to Grace, "and t'other one is with you, it can't do an atom of harm for you to go.
With Widow Ducrot he agreed that Claire was still too young to marry, and to himself kept the fact that to remarry he was in no haste. In his mind doubts still lingered. With a wife, young enough to be one of his children, disorganizing, the routine of his villa, would it be any more comfortable than he now found it? Would his eldest daughter and her stepmother dwell together in harmony?
"And have you brought Claire with you?" he asked. "Present your friend to me," commanded the duchess, as though she had not heard his question. Did I permit myself to guess at such things, I should have guessed the duchess to be about twenty-five years old. She was not tall; her hair was a dark brown, and the color in her cheeks rich but subdued.
Claire Fromont, a miniature Cauchoise dressed in lace, presented her to her cousin Georges, a magnificent hussar who turned at every step to observe the effect of his sabre. "You understand, Georges, she is my friend. She is coming to play with us Sundays. Mamma says she may." And, with the artless impulsiveness of a happy child, she kissed little Chebe with all her heart.
Prestonby and Claire, like a pair of marionettes on the same set of strings, cast a quick glance at the door and then were in each other's arms. Chester Pelton slept placidly as they kissed and whispered endearments. It was Claire who terminated the embrace, looking apprehensively at her slumbering father. "Ralph, what's it all about?" she asked.
I have heard a man say since that he wonders how the play could ever have raised anything beyond a laugh. He should have heard the sobs that every now and then would break uncontrollably forth, even whilst Claire was speaking. He should have felt the hush that followed every scene before the audience could recollect itself and pay its thunderous tribute.
That she, Claire Barkley, rich and independent, whose life had been selfish to a marked degree and who had never considered anything except from the point of view of vigor, perfection, or beauty, should ever love a blind man was incredible. "No," she thought, "not even the closest of daily relationships with him could ever make me really care. He is not of my life."
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