“‘Cr-r-rushed again!’” observed Francis Ronald gravely, but with a lurking, quizzical light of laughter in his eyes.

For an instant Claire was inclined to be resentful.  Then, her sense of humor coming to the rescue, she dropped her heroics and laughed out blithely.

“How jolly it must be to have a lot of money and be able to do all sorts of helpful, generous things!” she said lightly.

“You think money the universal solvent?”

“I think the lack of it the universal insolvent.”

“I hope you don’t lay too much emphasis on it.”

“Why?”

“Because it might lead you to do violence to your better impulses, your higher instincts.”

“Why should a man think he has the right to say that sort of thing to a woman?  Would you consider it a compliment if I suggested that your principles were hollow—­negotiable?  That they were For Sale or To Let, like an empty house?”

“I suppose most men would tell you they have no use for principle in their business—­only principal.”

“And you think women—­”

“Generally women have both principle and interest in the business of life.  That’s why we look to them to keep up the moral standard.  That’s why we feel it to be unworthy of her when a girl makes a mercenary marriage.”

The indignant blood sprang to Claire’s cheeks.  What business had he to interfere in her affairs, to warn her against marrying Bob Van Brandt, assuming that, if she did marry him, it would be only for money.  She was glad that Radcliffe bounded in just then, throwing himself upon her in his eagerness to tell her all that had befallen him during their long separation of two hours, when he had been playing on the Mall under Beetrice’s unwatchful eye.

In spite of Martha, Claire had just been on the point of confessing to Mr. Ronald.  He had seemed so friendly, so much less formidable than at any time since that first morning.  But she must have been mistaken, for here were all the old barriers up in an instant, and with them the resentful fire in her heart.

Perhaps it was the memory of this conversation that made her feel so ill at ease with Robert Van Brandt.  She could not understand herself.  Why should she feel so uncomfortable with her old friend?  She could not help being aware that he cared for her, but why did the thought of his telling her so make her feel like a culprit?  Why should he not tell her?  Why should she not listen?  One thing she felt she knew—­if he did tell her, and she refused to listen, he would give it up.  He would not persist.

She remembered how, as a little girl, she had looked up to him reverentially as “big Robby Van Brandt.”  He was a hero to her in those days, until—­he had let himself be balked of what he had started out to get.  If he had only persisted, insisted, who knows—­maybe—.

She was sure that if he offered her his love and she refused to accept it, he would not, like the nursery-rhyme model, try, try again.  He would give up and go away—­and in her loneliness she did not want him to go away.  Was she selfish? she wondered.  Selfish or no, she could not bring herself to follow Martha’s advice and “let’m get his perposal offn his chest.”