yofalizard'stongue.
"Youareinlove!"heexclaimed.
Jacobblushed.
Thesharpestofknivesnevercutsodeep.
Asforresponding,ortakingtheleastaccountofit,Jacobstaredstraightaheadofhim,fixed,monolithic—oh,verybeautiful!—likeaBritishAdmiral,exclaimedBonamyinarage,risingfromhisseatandwalkingoffwaitingforsomesoundnonecametooproudtolookbackwalkingquickerandquickeruntilhefoundhimselfgazingintomotorcarsandcursingwomen.Wherewastheprettywoman'sface?Clara's—Fanny's—Florinda's?Whowastheprettylittlecreature?
NotClaraDurrant.
TheAberdeenterriermustbeexercised,andasMr.Bowleywasgoingthatverymoment—wouldlikenothingbetterthanawalk—theywenttogether,ClaraandkindlittleBowley—BowleywhohadroomsintheAlbany,Bowleywhowroteletterstothe"Times"inajocularveinaboutforeignhotelsandtheAuroraBorealis—BowleywholikedyoungpeopleandwalkeddownPiccadillywithhisrightarmrestingonthebossofhisback.
"Littledemon!"criedClara,andattachedTroytohischain.
Bowleyanticipated—hopedfor—aconfidence.Devotedtohermother,Clarasometimesfeltheralittle,well,hermotherwassosureofherselfthatshecouldnotunderstandotherpeoplebeing—being—"asludicrousasIam,"Clarajerkedout(thedogtuggingherforwards).AndBowleythoughtshelookedlikeahuntressandturnedoverinhismindwhichitshouldbe—somepalevirginwithaslipofthemooninherhair,whichwasaflightforBowley.
Thecolourwasinhercheeks.Tohavespokenoutrightabouthermother—still,itwasonlytoMr.Bowley,wholovedher,aseverybodymustbuttospeakwasunnaturaltoher,yetitwasawfultofeel,asshehaddoneallday,thatsheMUSTtellsomeone.
"Waittillwecrosstheroad,"shesaidtothedog,bendingdown.
Happilyshehadrecoveredbythattime.
"ShethinkssomuchaboutEngland,"shesaid."Sheissoanxious—-"
Bowleywasdefraudedasusual.Claraneverconfidedinanyone.
"Whydon'ttheyoungpeoplesettleit,eh?"hewantedtoask."What'sallthisaboutEngland?"—aquestionpoorClaracould