She suggested, it seemed
to Mr Pickering, the prodigal daughter revisiting the old
homestead.
'Dudley!'
She smiled a faint smile, a wistful, deprecating smile. She was
looking lovelier than ever. Her face glowed with a wonderful
colour and her eyes were very bright. Mr Pickering met her gaze,
and strange things began to happen to his mind, that mind which a
moment before had thought so clearly and established so definite a
point of view.
What a gelatine-backboned thing is man, who prides himself on his
clear reason and becomes as wet blotting-paper at one glance from
bright eyes! A moment before Mr Pickering had thought out the
whole subject of woman and marriage in a few bold flashes of his
capable brain, and thanked Providence that he was not as those men
who take unto themselves wives to their undoing. Now in an instant
he had lost that iron outlook. Reason was temporarily out of
business. He was slipping.
'Dudley!'
For a space Subconscious Self thrust itself forward.
'Look out! Be careful!' it warned.
Mr Pickering ignored it. He was watching, fascinated, the glow on
Claire's face, her shining eyes.
'Dudley, I want to speak to you.'
'Tell her you can only be seen by appointment! Escape! Bolt!'
Mr Pickering did not bolt. Claire came towards him, still smiling
that pathetic smile.
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