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Updated: May 7, 2025
They have travelled fast." Taking Claire's hand, he led her up the steps; and just as he entered the hall the countess, to whom the news of his approach had been carried, met him. "Aunt," he said, "I confide this lady to your loving care. It is Mademoiselle de Valecourt, now my affianced wife.
She opened her lips to speak, but he went on rapidly, hoarsely: "Do not refuse me, for it would be my death warrant if you did. I tell you I cannot brook a refusal from those dear lips of yours. If you do not consent I shall make away with myself in your presence here and now with a revolver which lies in my breast pocket." A scream of terror broke from Claire's terrified lips.
The boys of Claire's own age, not long out of Yale and Princeton, doing well in business and jumping for their evening clothes daily at six-thirty, light o' loves and admirers of athletic heroes, these lads Claire found pleasant, but hard to tell apart. She didn't have to tell Jeff Saxton apart. He did his own telling. Jeff called not too often. He sang not too sentimentally.
Robson seemed to have contrived, from years of living among arid pleasures, the ability to conserve every happiness that she chanced upon to its last drop. Claire's invitation to be one of a distinguished group fed her vanity long after her daughter had outworn the delights of retrospection. The memory of this incident filled Mrs. Robson's thoughts, her dreams, her conversation.
Before the Boltwoods were seated, the waitress dabbed at non-existent spots on their napkins, ignored a genuine crumb on the cloth in front of Claire's plate, made motions at a cup and a formerly plated fork, and bubbled, "Autoing through?" Claire fumbled for her chair, oozed into it, and breathed, "Yes." "Going far?" "Yes." "Where do you live?" "New York." "My!
To judge from appearances, she was rather poorer than richer during the last few months, while bills for her new clothes came in again and again, and received no settlement. An obstinate look settled on Claire's face. She determined to have this thing out.
To cover this slight mishap, Claire gave a hurried signal to the pages, who appeared forthwith in splendid form, if a little overweighted by the burdens they bore. In some strange way Claire's simple gifts had been secretly augmented until they piled up upon the trays, twin-mountains of treasure.
Fine weather, good food, and a complete abstention from classical dancing give her these and she asked no more. She was, moreover, delighted at Claire's engagement. It seemed to her, for she had no knowledge of the existence of Lord Dawlish, a genuine manifestation of Love's Young Dream. She liked Dudley Pickering and she was devoted to Claire.
Claire's cheeks were flushed to a soft rose-pink, her head moved to and fro, unconsciously keeping time with the air; one little golden shoe softly tapped the floor. Her unconsciousness of self added to the charm of the performance.
Francis Ronald took Claire's key from her, fitted it into the lock of the outer door, and opened it for her. "And you will stand by Radcliffe? You won't desert him?" he asked, as she was about to pass into the house. "I'll show you that, at least, I'm not a quitter, even if I am a hopeless proposition, as you say."
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