each admired the other, and Brook
was suddenly conscious that he had never known a woman whom, in some
ways, he thought so admirable as Clare Bowring, but both felt a singular
constraint as they walked homeward.

"Do you know?" Clare began, when they were near Amalfi, "I think we had
better say nothing about it to my mother--that is, if you don't mind."

"By all means," answered Brook. "I'm sure I don't want to talk about
it."

"No, and my mother is very nervous--you know--about my going off to walk
without her. Oh, not about you--with anybody. You see, I'd been very ill
before I came here."

CHAPTER VIII

In obedience to Clare's expressed wish, Johnstone made no mention that
evening of the rather serious adventure on the Salerno road. They had
fallen into the habit of shaking hands when they bade each other
good-night. When it was time, and the two ladies rose to withdraw,
Johnstone suddenly wished that Clare would make some little sign to
him--the least thing to show that this particular evening was not
precisely what all the other evenings had been, that they were drawn a
little closer together, that perhaps she would change her mind and not
dislike him any more for that unknown reason at which he could not even
guess.

They joined hands, and his eyes met hers. But there was no unusual
pressure--no little acknowledgment of a common danger past. The blue
eyes looked at him straight and proudly, without softening, and the
fresh lips calmly said good-night. Johnstone remained alone, and in a
singularly bad humour for such a good-tempered man. He was angry with
Clare for being so cold and indifferent, and he was ashamed of himself
for wishing that she would admire him a little for having knocked down a
tipsy carter. It was not much of an exploit. What she had done had been
very much more remarkable. The man would not have killed him, of course,
but he might have given him a very dangerous wound with that ugly
clasp-knife. Clare's frock was cut to pieces on one side, and it was a
wonder that she had escaped without a scratch. He had no right to expect
any praise for what he had done, when she had done so much more.

To tell the truth, it was not praise that he wanted, but a sign that she
was not indifferent to him, or at least that she no longer disliked him.
He was ashamed to own to himself that he was half in love with a young
girl who had told him that she did not like him and would never even be
his f