He went upstairs, finished dressing, came out of the house, and rejoined Mr. Biron; and that gentleman noticed no change in him, thought, indeed, that he was taking the matter with heartless coolness. Certainly, if behavior which contrasted strongly with that of the injured father gave proof of heartlessness, then Bram was a very stone. All the way down the hill Mr. Biron lamented and moaned, sobbed, and even snivelled, loudly cursed the wretches at Holme Park who had made an outcast of his daughter, and, above all, Chris himself, who had stolen and ruined his daughter. But Bram cut him short. “Hush, Mr. Biron,” said he sternly. “Don’t say words like that till you are sure. For her sake hold your tongue. It’s not for you to cast the first stone at her, or even at him.” Even in his most sincere grief Mr. Biron resented being taken to task like this; and by Bram, of all people, whom he secretly disliked, as well as feared, although the young man’s strong character attracted him instinctively when he was in want of help. He drew himself up with all his old airy arrogance. “Do you think I would doubt her for a single moment if I were not cruelly sure?” cried he indignantly. “My own child, my own darling little Claire! But I understand it all now. I see how thoroughly I was deceived in Chris. But he shall smart for it! I’ll thrash him within an inch of his life! I won’t leave a whole bone in his body! I’ll strangle him! I’ll tear him limb from limb!” And Mr. Biron made a gesture more violent with every threat, until at last it seemed as if his frantic gesticulations must dislocate the bones in his own slim and fragile little body. As for Bram, he seemed to be past the stage of acute feeling of any sort. He was benumbed with the great blow that had fallen upon him; overwhelmed, in spite of the foreshadowings which had of late broken his peace. With the fall of his ideal there seemed to have crumbled away all that was best in his life, leaving only a cold automaton to do his daily work of head and hand. He was astonished himself, if the pale feeling could be called astonishment, to find that he could laugh at the antics of his companion; not openly, of course, but with secret and bitter gibes at the careless, selfish father, and the frantic gestures by which he sought to impress his companion. When Theodore’s energies were exhausted they walked on in silence. And then Theodore felt hurt at Bram’s blunt, stolid apathy. “I thought I should find you more sympathetic, Elshaw,” he said in an offended tone. “You always pretended to think so much of my daughter!” “It wasn’t pretence,” said Bram shortly. “But I’m thinking, Mr. Biron, though I don’t like to say it now, that she must have been very unhappy before she went away like that.”