Miss Arbuthnot, when she appeared, awoke no remembrances of the college.
She was a woman of past thirty, large, massive, and sleepy-looking.
Claudia saw the meeting between her and Captain Fenwick, and was struck
by the idea that they rather disliked each other. No two persons,
indeed, could have presented a greater contrast.
After the first morning, Fenwick exerted himself to give a personal
touch to the conversations he held with Claudia, and it surprised him to
find how much he cared to speak to her, since, as he reflected, it was
very like running your head against a stone wall. Until now he had
always avoided women with opinions and prejudices; it is true that he
had not hitherto met them accompanied by a dimple, or eyes which grew
brilliant in their eager enthusiasm, but the real attraction lay in the
girl's absolute indifference. He was so accustomed to impress that,
when he failed, he was like a hypnotist fighting against a strong will,
there was something which had to be overcome. That Claudia should come
and go without casting a glance in his direction, that no gleam of
pleasure lit her face when he chose the seat next to hers, was an
affront to his vanity. Almost unconsciously he began to study her more
attentively, and to mark her likes and dislikes. As she announced them
with careless freedom, this was not difficult, but it was less easy to
please her, even when he had found them out.
Harry Hilton arrived at the same rueful conclusion by another road.
Heroic were the sacrifices he made in order that Claudia's plans might
sweep freely in whatever direction she chose to extend them. There were
two limes which she condemned--not, as she owned, without regret--and
after the order had been given for their downfall, Harry rode away
immediately after breakfast, and did not return until dinner-time. He
told himself that he was an idiotic fool, but, do what he would, all day
the broad shadow of the great branches haunted him, and he heard in
fancy every stroke of the axe. Claudia, who was unusually well
satisfied with her day's work, greeted him eagerly.
"You don't know what a splendid opening we've got. I am longing for you
to see and acknowledge it."
"They are down?" said poor Harry, trying to speak cheerily.
"Yes, quite." Then she laughed. "I wasn't going to wait, when you
might have changed your mind, for you did not altogether agree with me,
you know. But I was certain it would be the greatest improvement
imaginable, and, even if it was a sacrifice,"--she was still
smiling--"art is made up of sacrifice, isn't it?"
"Is it?" he said humbly.
"Why do I talk to him like that, when he hasn't a glimmer of
understanding about art or anything beyond the commonplace, poor
fellow?" reflected Claudia. Aloud she said, "When you see it to-morrow
morning, you will be glad that I was firm."
And then she nodded and went away.
In an armchair close by, Miss Arbuthnot was sitting. She looked lazily
up.
"Harry," she said, "you might take me in to dinner for once instead of
your father. All my wits have gone out into the suburbs this evening,
and as you never had any, you won't miss them."
"All right," he agreed, rather dejectedly. "There's the gong."
He hoped to sit next Claudia, but Fenwick was too quick for him.
"Never mind," said Miss Arbuthnot, "or if you do mind, bear it. Life,
like art, is made up of sacrifices, and for once you might put up with
me, particularly as I, too, should prefer you to be somebody else."
"Who?" He stared.
"Oh, you expect too much. Do you suppose it is the vicar? I am not
going to talk about myself; when I do I like to have my wits at home,
and, as I told you, they are out visiting. You are a much more simple
subject, and as we are old friends, almost as old as you and the lime
trees, I should like to know why you are allowing that little girl to
ride you rough-shod?"