One evening she came into the house and found Philip alone, sitting darkly over his book. She felt sorry for him, and, wanting to leave him friendly memories, if she could, she walked quietly over to him and laid her hand on his shoulder.
He looked up and smiled faintly, though his face remained clouded.
"I dare say I do," he returned quietly, but there came into his eyes a fierce light that frightened her.
"Claire!" He stood up and faced her. "I do not know what you think of Lawrence. I do not know what he thinks of you. I do not care. I will tell you one thing. You lay in my arms yonder and said that you would be my wife. If you did not mean it"--he hesitated--"then you are scarcely the type of woman to be allowed to live. Don't lead me to suspect that such is the case."
Claire gasped, realized her situation, and for the moment was carried beyond all power of speech. She sank in a chair and stared at him. Then, suppressing her rising fear, she said calmly: "Philip, would you have me yours against your will?"
"Would you say you wanted to be mine and not mean it?"
"No," she faltered, "I--I might have meant it then."
"Does your heart change with the passing breeze?"
She was feeling panicky. Her throat was dry and hot.
"Very well. You lay in my arms there and told me you would be my wife. Years ago, before you came into my life, another woman played with me. You shall not. I do not know what has happened to bring about the change in you. It cannot alter my will. You are mine by your own lips. It is best for us both that I hold you to your promise. When we go out of this place to a priest you shall become my wife. You dare not be untrue to yourself!"
She was afraid to answer him. His dark, threatening face told her that he was beyond reason, and she sank wearily back in her chair. In her heart she was determined never to be his, but her lips played her false. Despite her will they whispered submissively, "Very well, Philip. I understand."
He laughed aloud. "What in Heaven's name made you act like that, Claire?" he asked, once more kindly and agreeable.
"A woman's whim!" she said, and hated herself for saying it.
"I don't understand women," he laughed softly.
"Neither do I." It was Lawrence's voice. He had come in, just in time to hear the last words. "Nor men, either--except in one thing."