Gradually it began to dawn upon him that this very little person, kind and companionable as she seemed, suffered under the delusion that he was going to obey her—­that, somehow, she was going to constrain him to obey her.  Of course, this was the sheerest nonsense.  How could she make him do anything he didn’t want to do, since his mother had told her, in his presence, that he was to be governed by love alone, and, fortunately, her lack of superior size and strength forbade her love from expressing itself as, he shudderingly remembered, Martha’s had done on one occasion.  No, plainly he had the advantage of Miss Lang, but until she clearly understood it, there were apt to be annoyances.  So, without taking the trouble to make the punishment fit the crime, he casually locked her in the sitting-room closet one morning.  She had stepped inside to hang up her hat and coat as usual, and it was quite easy, swiftly, noiselessly, to close the door upon her, and turn the key.

He paused a moment, choking back his nervous laughter, waiting to hear her bang on the panel, and clamor to be let out.  But when she made no outcry, when, beyond one or two futile turnings of the knob, there was no further attempt on her part to free herself, he stole upstairs to the schoolroom, and made merry over his clever exploit.

For a full minute after she found herself in darkness, Claire did not realize she was a prisoner.  The door had swung to after her, she thought, that was all.  But, when she turned the knob, and still it did not open, she began to suspect the truth.  Her first impulse was to call out, but her better judgment told her it would be better to wait with what dignity she might until Radcliffe tired of his trick, or some one else came and released her.  Radcliffe would tire the more quickly, she reasoned, if she did not raise a disturbance.  When he saw she was not to be teased, he would come and let her out.  She stood with her hot cheek pressed against the cool wood of the closet-door, waiting for him to come.  And listening for his steps, she heard other steps—­other steps which approached, and entered the sitting-room.  She heard the voices of Mrs. Sherman and Mr. Ronald in earnest conversation.

“If I thought such a thing were possible I’d send her away to-morrow,” Mrs. Sherman was saying in a high-pitched, excited voice.

“Why such delay?  Why not to-day?” inquired Mr. Ronald ironically.

“But, of course,” continued his sister, ignoring his interruption, “I know there’s nothing to be really afraid of.”

“Well, then, if you know there’s nothing to be afraid of, what are you afraid of?”

“I’m not really afraid.  I’m just talking things over.  You see, she’s so uncommonly pretty, and—­men are men, and you’re no exception.”

“I hope not.  I don’t want to be an exception.”

“Don’t you think she’s uncommonly pretty?”

“No, I don’t think I should call her—­pretty,” said Mr. Ronald with an emphasis his sister might well have challenged, if she had not been so preoccupied with her own thoughts that she missed its point.