For the first time those prolonged holidays appeared to Claire as a privilege which had its reverse side. Friends in Brussels might possibly house her for two or three weeks; she could not expect, she would not wish them to do more; and at the end there would still remain over three months! It was a new and disagreeable experience to look forward to holidays with dread! For a whole two minutes she looked thoroughly depressed, then her invincible optimism came to the top, and she cried triumphantly—

"I'll take a holiday engagement!"

The English mistress shook her head.

"That's fatal! I tried it myself one summer. Went with a family to the seaside, and was expected to play games with the children all day long, and coach them in the evening. I began the term tired out, and nearly collapsed before the end. Teaching is nerve-racking work, and if you don't get a good spell off, it's as bad for the pupils as yourself. You snap their heads off for the smallest trifle. Besides, it's folly to wear oneself out any sooner than one need. It's bad enough to think of the time when one has to retire. That's the nightmare which haunts us more and more every year."

"Don't you think when the time comes you will be glad to rest?" asked innocent Claire, whereupon Miss Rhodes glared at her with indignant eyes.

"We should be glad to rest, no doubt, but we don't exactly appreciate the prospect of resting in the workhouse, and it's difficult to see where else some of us are to go! There is no pension for High School- mistresses, and we are bound to retire at fifty-five—if we can manage to stick it out so long. Fifty-five seems a long way off to you—not quite so long to me; when you reach forty it becomes to feel quite near. Women are horribly long-lived, so the probability is that we'll live on to eighty or more. Twenty-five years after leaving off work, and—where is the money to come from to keep us? That's the question which haunts us all when we look into our bank-books and find that, with all our pains, we have only been able to save at the utmost two or three hundred pounds."

Claire looked scared, but she recovered her composure with a swiftness which her companion had no difficulty in understanding. She pounced upon her with lightning swiftness.

"Ah, you think you'll get married, and escape that way! We all do when we're new, and pretty, and ignorant of the life. But it's fifty to one, my dear, that you won't? You won't meet many men, for one thing; and if you do, they don't like school-mistresses."

"Doesn't that depend a good deal on the kind of school-mistress?"

"Absolutely; but after a few years we are all more or less alike. We don't begin by being dowdy and angular, and dogmatic and prudish; we begin by being pretty and cheerful like you. I used to change my blouse every evening, and put on silk stockings."

"Don't you now?"

"I do not! Why should I, to sit over a lodging-house table correcting exercises till ten o'clock? It's not worth the trouble. Besides, I'm too tired, and it wears out another blouse."

Claire's attention was diverted from clothes by the shock of the reference to evening work. She had looked forward to coming home to read an interesting book, or be lazy in whatever fashion appealed to her most, and the corrections of exercises seemed of all things the most dull.

"Shall I have evening work, too?" she inquired blankly, and Miss Rhodes laughed with brutal enjoyment.

"Rather! French compositions on the attributes of a true woman, or, 'How did you spend your summer holiday?' with all the tenses wrong, and the idioms translated word for word. And every essay a practical repetition of the one before. It's not once in a blue moon that one comes across a girl with any originality of thought. Oh, yes! that's the way we shall spend five evenings a week. You will sit at that side of the table, I will sit at this, and we'll correct and yawn, and yawn and correct, and drink a cup of cocoa and go to bed at ten. Lively, isn't it?"

"Awful! I never thought of homework. But if Saturday is a whole holiday there will still be one night off. I shall make a point of doing something exciting every Saturday evening."

"Exciting things cost money, and, as a rule, when you have paid up the various extras, there's no money to spare. I stay in bed till ten o'clock on Saturday, and then get up and wash blouses, and do my mending, and have a nap after lunch, and if it's summer, go and sit on a penny chair in the park, or take a walk over Hampstead Heath. In the evening I read a novel and have a hot bath. Once in a blue moon I have an extravagant bout, and lunch in a restaurant, and go to an entertainment—but I'm sorry afterwards when I count the cost. On Sunday I go to church, and wish some one would ask me to tea. They don't, you know. They may do once or twice, when you first come up, but you can never ask them back, and your clothes get shabby, and you know nothing about their interests, so they think you a bore, and quietly let you drop."

A smothered exclamation burst from Claire's lips; with a sudden, swirling movement she leapt up, and fell on her knees before Miss Rhodes's chair, her hands clasping its arms, her flushed face upturned with a desperate eagerness.

"Miss Rhodes! we are going to live together here, we are going to share the same room, and the same meals. Would you—if any one offered you a million pounds, would you agree to poison me slowly, day by day, dropping little drops of poison into everything I ate and everything I drank, while you sat by and watched me grow weaker and weaker till I died?"

"Good heavens, girl—are you mad! What in the world are you raving about?"

Miss Rhodes had grown quite red. She was indignant; she was also more than a little scared. The girl's sudden change of mood was startling in itself, and she looked so tense, so overwhelmingly in earnest. What could she mean? Was it possible that she was a little—touched?

"I suppose you don't realise it, but it's insulting even to put such a question."

"But you are doing it! It's just exactly what you are beginning already. Ever since I arrived you've been poisoning me drop by drop. Poisoning my mind! I am at the beginning of my work, and you've been discouraging me, frightening me, painting it all black. Every word that you've said has been a drop of poison to kill hope and courage and confidence—and oh, don't do it! don't go on! I may be young and foolish, and full of ridiculous ideas, but let me keep them as long as I can! If all that you say is true, they will be knocked out of me soon enough, and I—I've never had to work before, or been alone, and—and it's only two days since my mother left me to go to India—all that long way—and left me behind! It's hard enough to go on being alone, and believing it's all going to be couleur de rose, but it will be fifty times harder if I don't. Please—please don't make it any worse!"

With the last words tears came with a rush, the tears that had been resolutely restrained throughout the strain of the last week. Claire dropped her head on the nearest resting-place she could find, which happened to be Miss Rhodes's blue serge lap, and felt the quick pressure of a hand over the glossy coils.

"Poor little girl!" said the English mistress softly. "Poor little girl! I'm sorry! I'm a beast! Take no notice of me. I'm a sour, disagreeable old thing. It was more than half jealousy, dear, because you looked so pretty and spry, so like what I used to look myself. The life's all right, if you keep well, and don't worry too much ahead. There, don't cry! I loathe tears! You will yourself, when you have to deal with silly, hysterical girls. Come, I'll promise I won't poison you any more—at least, I'll do my best; but I've a grumbling nature, and you'd better realise it, once for all, and take no notice. We'll get on all right. I like you. I'm glad you came. My good girl, if you don't stop, I'll shake you till you do!"

Claire sat back on her heels, mopped her eyes, and gave a strangled laugh.

"I hate crying myself, but I'll begin again on the faintest provocation. It's always like that with me. I hardly ever cry, but when I once begin—"

Miss Rhodes rose with an air of determination.

"We'd better go out. I am free till lunch-time. I'll take you round and show you the neighbourhood, and the usual places of call. It will save time another day. Anything you want to buy?"

Claire mopped away another tear.

"C-certainly," she said feebly. "A c-offee machine."



CHAPTER SIX.

THE INVITATION.

The next morning Claire was introduced to the scene of her new labours, and was agreeably impressed with its outside appearance. Saint Cuthbert's High School was situated in a handsome thoroughfare, and had originally been a large private house, to which long wings had been added to right and left. On each side and across the road were handsome private houses standing in their own grounds, owned by tenants who regarded the High School with lively detestation, and would have borne up with equanimity had an earthquake swallowed it root and branch.

Viewed from inside, the building was less attractive, passages and class-rooms alike having the air of bleak austerity which seems inseparable from such buildings; but when nine o'clock struck, and the flood of young life went trooping up the stairways and flowed into the separate rooms, the sense of bareness was replaced by one of tingling vitality.

As is usual on an opening day, every girl was at her best and brightest, decked in a new blouse, with pigtails fastened by crisp new ribbons, and good resolutions wound up to fever point. To find a new French mistress in the shape of a pretty well-dressed girl, who was English at one moment, and at the next even Frenchier than Mademoiselle, was an unexpected joy, and Claire found the battery of admiring young eyes an embarrassing if stimulating experience.

Following Miss Farnborough's advice, she spent the first day's lessons in questioning the different classes as to their past work, and so turned the hour into an impromptu conversation class. The ugly English accents made her wince, and she winced a second time as she realised the unpleasant fact that just as her pupils would have to prepare for her, so would she be obliged to prepare for them! Forgotten rules of grammar must be looked up and memorised, for French was so much her mother tongue that she would find it difficult to explain distinctions which came as a matter of course. That meant more work at night, more infringement of holiday hours.

The girls themselves were for the most part agreeable and well-mannered. The majority were the daughters of professional men, and of gentle- folks of limited means; but there was also a sprinkling of the daughters of better-class artisans, who paid High School fees at a cost of much self-denial in order to train their girls for teachers' posts in the future. Here and there an awkward, badly-dressed child was plainly of a still lower class. These were the free "places"—clever children who had obtained scholarships from primary schools, and were undergoing the ordeal of being snubbed by their new school-mates as a consequence of their success.

From the teacher's point of view these clever children were a welcome stimulus, but class feeling is still too strong in England to make them acceptable to their companions.

At lunch-time the fifteen mistresses assembled in the Staff-Room, a dull apartment far too small for the purpose, a common fault in High Schools, where the different governing bodies are apt to spare no expense in providing for the comfort of the scholar, but grudge the slightest expenditure for the benefit of those who teach.

Fifteen mistresses sat round the table eating roast lamb and boiled cabbage, followed by rhubarb pie and rice pudding, and Claire, looking from one to the other, acknowledged the truth of Miss Rhodes's assertion that they were all of a type. She herself was the only one of the number who had any pretensions to roundness of outline, all the rest were thin to angularity, half the number wore pince-nez or spectacles, and all had the same strained pucker round the eyes. Each one wore a blue serge skirt and a white blouse, and carried herself with an air of dogmatic assurance, as who should say: "I know better than any one else, and when I speak let no dog bark!" The German mistress was the veteran of the party and was probably a good forty-five. Miss Bryce, the Froebel mistress, paired with Claire herself for the place of junior. Miss Blake, the Gym. mistress, was a graceful girl with an air of delicacy which did not seem in accord with her profession. Miss Rose, the Art mistress, was plain with a squat, awkward figure.

Rising from the table, Claire caught a glimpse of her own reflection in the strip of mirror over the chimney-piece, and at the sight a little thrill, half-painful, half-pleasant, passed through her veins. The soft bloom of her complexion, the dainty finish of her dress, differentiated her almost painfully from her companions, and she felt a pang of dread lest that difference should ever grow less. While she affected to read one of the magazines which lay on a side table, she was really occupied making a number of vehement resolutions: Never to slack in her care of her personal appearance; never to give up brushing her hair at night; never to wear a flannel blouse; never to give up manicuring her hands; never, no, never to allow herself to grow short-sighted, and be obliged to submit to specs!

The different mistresses seemed to be on friendly terms, but there was an absence of the camaraderie which comes from living under the same roof. School was a common possession, but home hours were spent apart, except when, as in Claire's own case, two mistresses shared the same rooms, and it followed as a matter of course that personal interests were divided. To-day the conversation was less scholastic than usual, the intervening holidays forming a topic of interest. The Art mistress had been on a bicycle sketching tour with a friend; the German mistress had taken a cheap trip home; Miss Blake announced that all her money had gone on "hateful massage," and the faces of her listeners sobered as they listened, for Sophy Blake, who led the exercises with such verve and go, had of late complained of rheumatic pains, and her companions heard of her symptoms with dread. What would become of Sophy if those pains increased? One after another the mistresses drifted over to where Claire sat turning the pages of her magazine, and exchanged a few fragments of conversation, and then the great bell clanged again, and afternoon school began.

The first half-hour of afternoon school proved the most trying of the day. Claire was tired after the exertions of the morning, and a very passion for sleep consumed her being. She fought against it with all her might, but the yawns would come; she fought against the yawns, and the tears flowed. To her horror the infection spread, and the girls began to yawn in their turn, with long, uncontrolled gapes. It was a junior class, and the new mistress shrewdly suspected that the infection was welcomed as an agreeable interlude. It was obvious that she could not afford to reject that cup of coffee. Good or bad it must be drunk! Rich or poor that penny must be dedicated to the task of vitalising that first hour of sleepiness.

At the end of six weeks Claire felt as though she had been a High School-mistress all her life. The regular methodical days, in which every hour was mapped out, had a deadening effect on one who had been used to constant variety, and except for a difference in the arrangement of classes there seemed no distinction between one and the other. She was a machine wound up to work steadily from Monday morning until Friday night, and absurdly ready to run down when the time was over.

Every morning after breakfast she started forth with Miss Rhodes, by foot if the weather were fine, by Tube if wet; every mid-day she dined in the Staff-Room with the fifteen other mistresses, and gulped down a cup of chicory coffee. At four o'clock the mistresses met once more for tea, a free meal this time, supplemented by an occasional cake which one of the fifteen provided for the general good. At five she and her table companion returned to their rooms, and rested an hour before taking the evening meal.

Claire was sufficiently French to be intolerant of badly cooked food, and instead of resigning herself to eat and grumble, after the usual habit of lodging-house dwellers, resolutely set to work to improve the situation. The coffee machine had now a chafing-dish as companion, and it was a delightful change of work to set the two machines to work to provide a dainty meal.

"High Tea" consisted as a rule of coffee and some light dish, the materials for which were purchased on the way home. On hungry days, when work had been unusually trying, the butcher supplied cutlets, which were grilled with tomatoes, or an occasional quarter of a pound of mushrooms: on economical days the humble kipper—legendary food of all spinsters in lodgings!—was transformed into quite a smart and restaurant-ey dish, separated from its bones, pounded with butter and flavouring, and served in neat little mounds on the top of hot buttered toast. Moreover, Claire was a proficient in the making of omelettes, and it was astonishing how large and tempting a dish could be compounded of two eggs, and the minutest scrap of ham left over from the morning's breakfast!

"Every luxury of the season, with the smell thrown in! In nice cooking the smell is almost the best part. All the cedars in Lebanon wouldn't smell as good at this moment as this nice ham-ey coffee-y frizzle," Claire declared one Friday evening as she served the meal on red-hot plates, and glowed with delight at her own sleight of hand. "Don't you admire eggs for looking so small, when they possess such powers of expansion? All the result of beating. Might make a simile out of that, mightn't you?"

"Might, but won't," the English teacher replied, sipping luxuriously at her coffee. "I'm not a teacher any more at this moment. I'm a gourmand, pure and simple, and I'll stay a gourmand straight on till this omelette is finished. When all trades fail, you might go out as a missioner to women living in diggings, and teach them how to prepare their meals, and sell chafing-dishes by instalment payments at the door, as the touts sell sewing machines to the maids. It would be a noble vocation!"

Claire smirked complacently. "I flatter myself I have made a difference to your material comfort! Poor we may be, but we do have nice, dainty little meals, and there's no reason why every able-bodied woman shouldn't have them at the same cost. I've just remembered another nice dish. We'll have it to-morrow night." She paused, and a wistful look came into her eyes, for the next day was Saturday, and it was on holiday afternoons that the feeling of loneliness grew most acute. School life was monotonous, but it was never lonely; from morning to night one lived in a crowd, and already each class had furnished youthful adorers eager to sit at the feet of the pretty new mistress, and bring her offerings of chocolates and flowers; for five long days there was always a crowd, always a hum and babble of voices, but at the end of the week came a dead calm.

On the first Saturday of the term Miss Farnborough had invited the new French mistress to tea, and had been all that was friendly and encouraging; but since that time no word had passed between them that was not strictly concerned with the work in hand, and Claire realised that as one out of sixteen mistresses she could not hope for frequent invitations.

On one Sunday the Gym. mistress had offered her company for a walk, and there the list of hospitalities ceased. No invitations came from that friend of Mrs Fanshawe's who was so fond of girls who were working for themselves. Claire had hardly expected it, but she was disappointed all the same. A longing was growing within her to sit again in a pretty, daintily-appointed room, and talk about something else than time-tables, and irregular verbs, and the Association of Assistant Mistresses which, amalgamated with the Association of Assistant Masters and the Teachers' Guild, were labouring to obtain a settled scale of salaries, and that great safeguard, desired above all others, a pension on retirement!

On this particular Friday evening the longing was so strong that she had deliberately gone out of her way to try to gain an invitation by walking home with a certain Flora Ross in the sixth form, who was the most ardent of her admirers. Flora lived in a cheerful-looking house about a quarter of a mile from the school, and every morning hung over the gate waiting for the chance occasions when her beloved Miss Gifford approached alone, and she could have the felicity of accompanying her for the rest of the way. On these occasions she invariably turned to wave her hand to a plump, smiling mother who stood at a bay window waving in return. An upper window was barred with brass rods, against which two little flaxen heads bobbed up and down. Both the house and its inmates had a cheerful wholesome air, which made a strong appeal to the heart of the lonely girl, and this Friday afternoon, meeting Flora waiting in the corridor, she had accepted her companionship on the way home with a lurking hope that when the green gate was reached, she would be invited to come inside.

Alas! no such thought seemed to enter Flora's brain. She gazed adoringly into Claire's face and hung breathlessly on her words, but for all her adoration there was a gulf between. Claire was the sweetest and duckiest of mistresses, but she was a mistress, a being shut off from the ordinary interests of life. When Flora said, "Isn't it jolly, we are going to have a musical party to-morrow! We have such lovely parties, and mother always lets me sit up!" she might have been speaking to a creature without ears, for all the consciousness she exhibited that Claire might possibly wish to take part in the fray. When the green gate was reached, the plump mamma was seen standing outside the drawing- room window and recognising the identity of her daughter's companion, she bent her head in a courteous bow, but she made no attempt to approach the gate.

"See you on Monday!" cried Flora fondly, then the gate clicked, and Claire walked along the road with her head held high, and two red spots burning on either cheek. That evening for the first time she felt a disinclination to change into the pretty summer frock which she had chosen as a compromise for evening dress; that evening for the first time the inner voice whispered to her as it had done to so many before her: "What's the good? Nobody sees you! Nobody cares."

Miss Rhodes finished her share of the omelette, turned on to bread and jam, and cast a glance of inquiry at her companion, who had relapsed into unusual silence.

"Anything wrong?"

"Yes, I think so. Usual symptoms, I suppose. I want to wear all my best clothes and go out to do something gay and exciting, Cecil!" The English teacher's name being Rhodes, it was obvious that she should be addressed as Cecil, especially as her parents had been misguided enough to give her the unsuitably gentle name of Mary. "Cecil, do none of the parents ever ask us out?"

"Why should they?"

"Why shouldn't they? If we are good enough to teach their children, we are good enough for them. If they are interested in their children's welfare, they ought to make a point of knowing us to see what kind of influence we use."

"Quite so."

"Well?"

"Well, my dear, there's only one thing to be said—they don't! As I told you before, there's a prejudice against mistresses. They give us credit for being clever, and cultivated, and hard-working; but they never grasp the fact that we are human girls, who would very much enjoy being frivolous for a change. I have been asked out to tea at rare intervals, and the mothers have apologised for the ordinary conversation, and laboriously switched it on to books. I didn't want to talk books. I wanted to discuss hats and dresses, and fashionable intelligence, and sing comic songs, and play puss-in-the-corner, and be generally giddy and riotous; but my presence cast a wet blanket over the whole party, and we discussed Science and Art. Now I'm old and resigned, but it's hard on the new hands. I think it was rather brutal of your mother to let you come to London without taking the trouble of getting some introductions. Don't mind me saying so, do you?"

Claire smiled feebly.

"You have said it, anyhow! I know it must seem unkind to anyone who does not know mother. She's really the kindest person in the world, but she's very easy-going, and apt to believe that everything will happen just as she wishes. She felt quite sure that Miss Farnborough and the staff would supply me with a whirl of gaiety. There was one lady, who said she would write to a friend—"

Cecil groaned deeply.

"I know that friend. She comes from Sheffield. A dear kind friend who would love to have you out on holidays. A friend who takes a special interest in school-mistresses. A friend who gives such nice inter-est- ing parties, and would certainly send you a card if she knew your address. Was that it, my dear—was that the kind of friend?"

Cecil chuckled with triumph at the sight of Claire's lengthening jaw. In truth there seemed something uncanny in so accurate a reproduction of Mrs Fanshawe's description. Was there, indeed, no such person? Did she exist purely as a dummy figure, to be dangled before the eyes of credulous beginners? Claire sighed, and buried her last lingering hope; and at that very moment the postman's rap sounded at the door, and a square white envelope was handed in, addressed in feminine handwriting to Miss Claire Gifford.

Claire tore it open, pulled forth a white card, gasped and flushed, and tossed it across the table with a whoop of triumph.

"Raven, look at that! What do you think now of your melancholy croaks?"

Cecil picked up the card, inscribed with the orthodox printed lines, beneath which a few words had been written.

Mrs Willoughby, At Home May 26th, 9 p.m. Music.

"Have just received your address from Mrs Fanshawe. Shall hope to see you to-morrow.—E.B.W."

Cecil screwed up her face in disparagement.

"Nine o'clock. Mayfair. That means a taxi both ways. Can't arrive at a house like that in a mackintosh, with your shoes in a bag. Much wiser to refuse. It will only unsettle you, and make you unfit for work. She's done the polite thing for once, because she was asked, but she'll never do it again. I've been through it myself, and I know the ropes. A woman like that has hundreds of friends; why should she bother about you? You'll never be asked again."

But at that Claire laughed, and beat her hand on the table.

"But I say I shall! I say I'll be asked often! I don't care if you've had a hundred experiences, mine shall be different. She has asked me once; now, as the Yankees say, 'it's up to me' to do the rest. I'll make up my mind to make her want to ask me!"



CHAPTER SEVEN.

TRANSFORMATION OF CECIL.

In the days to come when Claire looked back and reviewed the course of events which followed, she realised that Mrs Willoughby's invitation had been a starting-point from which to date happenings to others as well as herself. It was, for instance, on the morning after its arrival that Cecil's chronic discontent reached an acute stage. She appeared at breakfast with a clouded face, grumbled incessantly throughout the meal, and snapped at everything Claire said, until the latter was provoked into snapping in return. In the old days of idleness Claire had been noted for the sunny sweetness of her disposition, but she was already discovering that teaching lays a severe strain on the nerves, and at the end of a week's work endurance seemed at its lowest ebb. So, when her soft answers met rebuff after rebuff, she began to grumble in her turn, and to give back as good as she got.

"Really, Cecil, I am exceedingly sorry that your form is so stupid, and your work so hard, but I am neither a pupil nor a chief, so I fail to see where my responsibility comes in. Wouldn't it be better if you interviewed Miss Farnborough instead of me?"

It was the first time that Claire had answered sharply, and for the moment surprise held Cecil dumb. Then the colour flamed into her cheeks, and her eyes sparkled with anger. Though forbearance had failed to soothe her, opposition evidently added fuel to the fire.

"Miss Farnborough!" she repeated jeeringly. "What does Miss Farnborough care for the welfare of her mistresses, so long as they grind through their daily tasks? It is the pupils she thinks about, not us. The pupils who are to be pampered and considered, and studied, and amused in school and out. They have to have games in summer, and a mistress has to give up her spare time to watch the pretty dears to see that they don't get into trouble; and they must have parties, and concerts, and silly entertainments in winter, with some poor wretch of a mistress to do all the work so that they may enjoy the fun. Miss Farnborough is an exemplary Head so far as her scholars are concerned, but what does she do for her mistresses? I ask you, does she do anything at all?"

Claire considered, and was silent. Her first term was nearly over, and she could not truthfully say that the Head had taken any concern for her as an individual who might be expected to feel some interest in life beyond the school door. It is true that almost every day brought the two in contact for the exchange of a few words which, if strictly on business, were always pleasant and kindly, but except for the one invitation to tea on the day before work began, they had never met out of school hours. Claire was a stranger in London, yet the Head had never inquired as to her leisure hours, never invited her to her house, or offered, her an introduction to friends, never even engaged the sympathies of other mistresses on her behalf. Claire had expected a very different treatment, and had struggled against a sense of injury, but she would not acknowledge as much in words.

"I suppose Miss Farnborough is even more tired than we are. She has a tremendous amount of responsibility. And she has a brother and sister at home. Perhaps they object to an incursion of school in free hours."

"Then she ought to leave them, and live where she can do her duty without interference. After all mistresses are girls, too, not very much older than some of the pupils when we begin work; it's inhuman to take no interest in our welfare. It wouldn't kill a Head to give up a night a month to ask us to meet possible friends, or to write a few letters of introduction. You agree with me in your heart, so it's no use pretending. It's a moral obligation, if it isn't legal, and I say part of the responsibility is hers if things go wrong. It's inhuman to leave a young girl alone in lodgings without even troubling to inquire if she has anywhere to go in her leisure hours. But it's the same tale all round. Nobody thinks. Nobody cares. I've gone to the same church for three years, and not a soul has spoken to me all that time. I've no time to give to Church work, and the seats are free, so there's no way of getting into touch. I don't suppose any one has ever noticed the shabby school-mistress in her shabby blue serge."

Suddenly Mary Rhodes thrust back her chair, and rising impetuously began to storm up and down the room.

"Oh, I'm tired, I'm tired of this second-hand life. Living in other people's houses, teaching other people's children, obeying other people's orders. I'm sick of it. I can't stand it a moment longer. I'd rather take any risk to be out of it. After all, what could be worse? Any sort of life lived on one's own must be better than this. Nearly twelve years of it—and if I have twenty more, what's the end? What is there to look forward to? Slow starvation in a bed-sitting- room, for perhaps thirty years. I won't do it, I won't! I've had enough. Now I shall choose for myself!"

Like a whirlwind she dashed out of the room, and Claire put her elbow on the table and leant her head on her hands, feeling shaken, and discouraged, and oppressed. For the first time a doubt entered her mind as to whether she could continue to live with Mary Rhodes. In her brighter modes there was much that was attractive in her personality, but to live with a chronic grumbler sapped one's own powers of resistance. Claire felt that for the sake of her own happiness and efficiency it would be wiser to make a change, but her heart sank at the thought of making a fresh start, of perhaps having to live alone with no one to speak to in the long evenings. The life of a bachelor girl made little appeal at that moment. Liberty seemed dearly bought at the price of companionship.

Claire spent the morning writing to her mother and reading over the series of happy letters which had reached her week after week. Mrs Judge was in radiant spirits, delighted with the conditions of her new life, full of praise of her husband and the many friends to whom she had been introduced. Three-fourths of the letter were taken up with descriptions of her own gay doings, the remaining fourth with optimistic remarks on her daughter's life. How delightful to share rooms with another girl! What a nice break to have every Saturday and Sunday free! What economical rooms! Claire must feel quite rich. What fun to have the girls so devoted!

Claire made an expressive grimace as she read that "quite rich." This last week she had been obliged to buy new gloves, and to have her boots mended. A new umbrella had been torn by the carelessness with which another teacher had thrust her own into the crowded stand, and one night she had been seized with a longing for a dainty well-cooked meal, and had recklessly stood treat at a restaurant. She did not feel at all "rich" as she made up the week's account, and reflected that next week the expense of driving to Mrs Willoughby's "At Home" would again swell up the total of these exasperating "extras" which made such havoc of advance calculations.

Cecil did not appear until lunch was on the table, when she flung the door wide open and marched in with an air of bravado, as if wanting her companion to stare at once and get over it. It would have been impossible not to stare, for the change in her appearance was positively startling to behold. Her dark hair was waved and fashionably coiffed. Her best coat and skirt had been embellished with frills of lace at neck and sleeves, a pretty little waistcoat had been manufactured out of a length of blue ribbon and a few paste buttons, while a blue feather necklet had been promoted a step higher, and encircled an old straw hat. The ribbon bow at the end of the boa exactly matched the shade of the waistcoat, and was cocked up at a daring angle, while a becoming new veil and a pair of immaculate new gloves added still further to the effect.

Claire had always suspected that Cecil could be pretty if she chose to take the trouble, and now she knew it for a fact. It was difficult to realise that this well-groomed-looking girl, with the bright eyes and softly-flushed cheeks, could really be the same person as the frumpy- looking individual who every morning hurried along the street.

Involuntarily Claire threw up her hands; involuntarily she cried aloud in delight "Cheers! Cheers! How do you do, Cecil? Welcome home, Cecil!—the real Cecil! How pretty you are, Cecil! How well that blue suits you! Don't dare to go back to your dull navy and black. I shall insist that you always wear blue. I feel quite proud of having such a fine lady to lunch. You are going to have lunch, aren't you? Why those gloves and veil?"

"Oh, well—I'm not hungry. I'll have some coffee. I may have lunch in town." Cecil was plainly embarrassed under her companion's scrutiny. She pushed up her veil, so that it rested in a little ridge across her nose, craned forward her head, sipping her coffee with exaggerated care, so that no drop should fall on her lacy frills.

Claire longed to ask a dozen questions, but something in Cecil's manner held her at bay, and she contented herself with one inquiry—

"What time will you be home?"

Cecil shrugged her shoulders.

"Don't know. Perhaps not till late." She was silent for a moment, then added with sudden bitterness, "You are not the only person who has invitations. If I chose, I could go out every Saturday."

"Then why on earth are you always grumbling about your loneliness?" thought Claire swiftly, but she did not put the thought into words. After the warmth of her own welcome, a kinder response was surely her due; she was angry, and would not condescend to reply.

The meal was finished in silence, but when Cecil rose to depart, the usual compunction seized her in its grip. She stood arranging her veil before the mirror over the mantelpiece, uttering the usual interjectory expressions of regret.

"Sorry, Claire. I'm a wretch. You must hate me. I ought to be shot. Nice Saturday morning I've given you! What are you going to do this afternoon?"

Claire's eyes turned towards the window with an expression sad to see on so young a face—an imprisoned look. Her voice seemed to lose all its timbre as she replied in one flat dreary word—

"Nothing!"

A spasm of irresolution passed across Cecil's face. For a moment she looked as if she were about to throw aside her own project and cast in her lot with her friend's. Then her face hardened, and she turned towards the door.

"Why not call for Sophie Blake, and see if she will go a walk? She asked you once before."

With that she was gone, and Claire was left to consider the proposition. Sophie Blake, the Games mistress, was the single member of the staff who had shown any disposition towards real friendship, though the intimacy was so far confined to one afternoon's walk, and an occasional chat in the dinner hour, but this afternoon the thought of her merry smile acted as an irresistible magnet. Claire ran upstairs to get ready, in a panic lest she might arrive at Sophie's lodgings to find she had already gone out for the afternoon. Cecil had hinted that she might not return until late, and suddenly it seemed unbearable to spend the rest of the day in solitude. Restlessness was in the air, first the pleasurable restlessness caused by the receipt of Mrs Willoughby's invitation, then the disagreeable restlessness caused by Cecil's erratic behaviour. As she hurried through the streets towards Sophie Blake's lodgings, Claire pondered over the mystery of this sudden development on Cecil's part. Where was she going? Whom was she going to see? Why declare with one breath that she was without a friend, and with the next that if she chose she might accept invitations every week? What special reason had to-day inspired such unusual care in her appearance?

Sophie was at home. Lonely Claire felt quite a throb of relief as she heard the welcome words. She entered the oil-clothed passage and was shown into a small, very warm, very untidy front parlour wherein stood Sophie herself, staring with widened eyes at the opening door.

"Oh, it's you!" she cried. "What a fright you gave me! I couldn't think who it could be. Come in! Sit down! Can you find a free chair? Saturday is my work day. I've been darning stockings, and trimming a hat, and ironing a blouse, and washing lace, and writing letters all in a rush. I love a muddle on Saturdays. It's such a change after routine all the week. What do you think of the hat? Seven and sixpence, all told. I flatter myself it looks worth every penny of ten. Don't pull down that cloth. The iron's underneath. Be careful of that table! The ink-pot's somewhere about. How sweet of you to call! I'll clear this muddle away and then we can talk ... Oh, my arm!"

"What's the matter with the arm?"

Sophie shrugged carelessly.

"Rheumatism, my dear. Cheerful, isn't it, for a gym. mistress? It's been giving me fits all the week."

"The east winds, I suppose. I know they make rheumatism worse."

"They do. So does damp. So does snow. So does fog. So does cold. So does heat. If you could tell me of anything that makes it better, I'd be obliged. Bother rheumatism! Don't let's talk of it... It's Saturday, my dear. I never think of disagreeables on Saturday. Where's Miss Rhodes this afternoon?"

"I don't know. She made herself look very nice and smart—she can be very nice-looking when she likes!—and went out for the day."

"Humph!" Sophie pursed her lips and contracted her brows as if in consideration of a knotty point. "She was awfully pretty when I came to the school ten years ago. And quite jolly and bright. You wouldn't know her for the same girl. She's a worrier, of course, but it's more than that. Something happened about six years ago, which took the starch out of her once for all. A love affair, I expect. Perhaps she's told you... I'm not fishing, and it's not my business, but I'm sorry for the poor thing, and I was sorry for you when I heard you were going to share her room. She can't be the most cheerful companion in the world!"

"Oh, she's quite lively at times," Claire said loyally, "and very appreciative. I'm fond of her, you know, but I wish she didn't grumble quite so much." She looked round the parlour, which was at once bigger and better furnished than the joint apartment in Laburnum Crescent, and seized upon an opportunity of changing the subject. "You have a very nice room."

Sophie Blake looked round with an air half proud, half guilty.

"Y-es. Too nice. I've no business to spend so much, but I simply can't stand those dreadful cheap houses. People are always fussing and telling one to save up for old age. I think it matters far more to have things nice in one's youth. I get a hundred and thirty a year, and have to keep myself all the year round and help to educate a young sister. We are orphans, and the grown-ups have to keep her between us. I couldn't save if I wanted to, so what's the use of worrying? I don't care very much what happens after fifty-five. Perhaps I shall be married. Perhaps I shall be dead. Perhaps some nice kind millionaire will have taken a fancy to me, and left me a fortune. If the worst comes to the worst, I'll go into a home for decayed gentlewomen and knit stockings—no, not stockings, I should never be able to turn the heels— long armlet things, like mittens, without the thumbs. Look here. Where shall we go? Isn't it a shame that all the nice shops close early on Saturday? We might have had such sport walking along Knightsbridge, choosing what we'd like best from every window. Have you ever done that? It's ripping fun. What about Museums? Do you like Museums? Rather cold for the feet, don't you think? What can we do that's warm and interesting, and exciting, and doesn't cost more than eighteenpence?"

Claire laughed gleefully, not at the thought of the eighteenpenny restriction, but from pure joy at finding a companion who could face life with a smile, and find enjoyment from such simple means as imaginary purchases from shop windows. Oh, the blessed effect of a cheerful spirit! How inspiriting it was after the constant douche of discouragement from which she had suffered for the last nine weeks!

"Oh, bother eighteenpence! This is my treat, and we are going to enjoy ourselves, or know the reason why. I've got a lot of money in the bank, and I'm just in the mood to spend. We'll go to the Queen's Hall, and then on to have tea in a restaurant. You would like to hear some music?"

"So long as it is not a chorus of female voices—I should! I'm a trifle fed up with female voices," cried Sophie gaily. She picked up her newly-trimmed hat from the table and caressed it fondly. "Come along, darling. You're going to make your debut!"



CHAPTER EIGHT.

THE RECEPTION.

It was almost worth while leading a life of all work and no play for six weeks on end, for the sheer delight of being frivolous once more; of dressing oneself in one's prettiest frock, drawing on filmy silk stockings and golden shoes, clasping a pearl necklace round a white throat and cocking a feathery aigrette at just the right angle among coppery swathes of hair. No single detail was wanting to complete the whole, for in the old careless days Claire's garments had been purchased with a lavish hand, the only anxiety being to secure the most becoming specimen of its kind. There were long crinkly gloves, and a lace handkerchief, and a fan composed of curling feathers and mother-of-pearl sticks, and a dainty bag hanging by golden cords, and a cloak of the newest shape, composed of layers of different-tinted chiffons, which looked more like a cloud at sunset than a garment manufactured by human hands and supposed to be of use!

Claire tilted her little mirror to an acute angle, gave a little skip of delight as she surveyed the completed whole, and then whirled down the narrow staircase, a flying mist of draperies, through which the little gold-clad feet gleamed in and out. She whirled into the sitting-room, where the solitary lamp stood on the table, and Cecil lay on the humpy green plush sofa reading a novel from the Free Library. She put down the book and stared with wide eyes as Claire gave an extra whirl for her benefit, and cried jubilantly—

"Admire me! Admire me! I'm dying to be admired! Don't I look fine, and smart, and unsuitable! Will any one in the world mistake me for a High School-mistress!"

Cecil rose from the sofa, and made a solemn tour of inspection. Obviously she was impressed, obviously she admired, obviously also she found something startling in her inspection. There was pure feminine interest in the manner in which she fingered each delicate fabric in turn, there was pure feminine kindness in the little pat on the arm which announced the close of the inspection.

"My dear, it's ripping! Rich and rare isn't in it. You look a dream. Poor kiddie! If this is the sort of thing you've been used to, it's been harder for you than I thought! Yes, horribly unsuitable, and when it's worn-out, you'll never be able to have another like it. White ponge will be your next effort."

"Bless your heart, I've three others just as fine, and these skimpy skirts last for an age. No chance of any one planting a great foot on the folds and tearing them to ribbons as in the old days. There are no folds to tread on."

But Cecil as usual was ready with her croak.

"Next year," she said darkly, "there will be flounces. Before you have a chance of wearing your four dresses, everybody will be fussy and frilly, and they'll be hopelessly out of date."

"Then I'll cut up two and turn them into flounces to fuss out the others!" cried Claire, the optimist, and gave another caper from sheer lightness of heart. "How do you like my feet?"

"I suppose you mean shoes. A pretty price you paid for those. I'm sure they're too tight!"

"Boats, my dear, boats! I've had to put in a sole. Didn't you know my feet were so small? How do you like my cloak? It's meant to look like a cloud. Layers of blue, pink and grey, 'superimposed,' as the fashion papers have it. Or should you say it was more like an opal?"

"No, I should not. Neither one nor the other. Considered as a cloak for a foggy November evening, I should call it a delusion and a fraud. You'll get a chill. I've a Shetland shawl. I'll lend it to you to wrap round your shoulders."

"No, you won't!" Claire cried defiantly. "Shetland shawl indeed! Who ever heard of a girl of twenty-one in a Shetland shawl? I'm going to a party, my dear. The joy of that thought would keep me warm through a dozen fogs."

"You'll have to come back from the party, however, and you mayn't feel so jubilant then. It's not too exciting when you don't know a soul, and sit on one seat all evening. I knew a girl who went to a big crush and didn't even get a cup of coffee. Nobody asked her to go down."

Claire swept her cloak to one side, and sat down on a chair facing the sofa, her white gloves clasped on her knee, the embroidered bag hanging by its golden cords to the tip of the golden slippers. She fixed her eyes steadily on her companion, and there was in them a spark of anger, before which Cecil had the grace to flush.

"Sorry! Really I am sorry—"

"'Repentance is to leave The sins we loved before, And show that we in earnest grieve By doing so No More!'"

quoted Claire sternly. "Really, Cecil, you are the champion wet blanket of your age. It is too bad. I have to do all the perking up, and you can't even let me go to a party without damping my ardour. I was thinking it over the other night, and I've hit on a promising plan. I'm going to allow you a grumble day a week—but only one. On that day you can grumble as much as ever you like, from the moment you get up till the moment you go to bed. You'll be within your rights, and I shall not complain. I'll have my own day, too, when you can find out what it feels like to listen, but won't be allowed to say a word in return. For the rest of the week you'll just have to grin and bear it. You won't be allowed a single growl."

Cecil knitted her brows, and looked ashamed and uncomfortable, as she invariably did when taxed with her besetting sin. Claire's charge on mental poisoning had struck home, and she had honestly determined to turn over a new leaf; but the habit had been indulged too long to be easily abandoned. Unconsciously, as it were, disparaging remarks flowed from her lips, combined with a steady string of objections, adverse criticisms, and presentiments of darkness and gloom. At the present moment she felt a little startled to realise how firmly the habit was established, and the proposal of a licenced grumble day held out some promise of a cure.

"Then I'll have Monday!" she cried briskly. "I am always in a bad temper on Mondays, so I shall be able to make the most of my chance." She was silent for a moment considering the prospect, then was struck with a sudden thought. "But now and then I do have a nice week-end, and then I shouldn't want to grumble at all. I suppose I could change the day?"

There was a ring of triumph in Claire's laugh.

"Not you! My dear girl, that's just what I am counting upon! Sometimes the sun will shine, sometimes you'll get a nice letter, sometimes the girls will be intelligent and interesting, and then, my dear, you'll forget, and the day will skip past, and before you know where you are it will be Tuesday morning and your chance will have gone. Cecil, fancy it! A whole fortnight without a grumble. It seems almost too good to be true!"

"It does!" said the English mistress eloquently. She sat upright on the green plush sofa, her shabby slippers well in evidence beneath the edge of her shabby skirt, staring with curious eyes at the radiant figure of the girl in the opposite chair. "I don't think you need a day at all!"

"Because I'm going to a solitary party? Only two minutes ago, my love, you were sympathising with my hard lot! I shall have Fridays. I'm tired on Fridays, and it's getting near the time for making up accounts. I can be quite a creditable grumbler on Fridays."

"Well, just as you like! You are going to the party, I suppose? Haven't changed your mind by any chance, and determined to spend the evening hectoring me! If you are going, you'd better go. I'll sit up for you and keep some cocoa—"

Claire rose with a smile.

"I appreciate the inference! Starved and disillusioned, I am to creep home and weep on your bosom. Well, we'll see! Good-bye for the present. I'll tell you all about it when I get back..."

A minute's whistling at the front door produced a taxi, in which Claire seated herself and was whirled westward through brightly lighted streets. In the less fashionable neighbourhoods the usual Saturday crowd thronged round the shops and booths, making their purchases at an hour when perishable goods could be obtained at bargain prices. Claire and Cecil had themselves made such expeditions before now, coming home triumphant with some savoury morsel for supper, and with quite a lavish supply of flowers to deck the little room. At the time the expeditions had been pleasant enough, and there had seemed nothing in the least infra dig in taking advantage of the opportunity; but to-night the girl in the cloudy cloak looked through the windows of her chariot with an ineffable condescension, and found it difficult to believe that she herself had ever made one of so insignificant a throng!

"How I do love luxury! It's the breath of my nostrils," she said to herself with a little sigh of content, as she straightened herself in her seat, and smiled back at her own reflection in the strip of mirror opposite. Her hair had "gone" just right. What a comfort that was! Sometimes it took a stupid turn and could not be induced to obey. She opened the cloak at the top and peeped at the dainty whiteness within, with the daring, thoroughly French touch of vivid emerald green which gave a cachet to the whole. Yes, it was quite as pretty as she had believed. Every whit as becoming. "I don't look a bit like a school- mistress!" smiled Claire, and snoodled back again against the cushions with a deep breath of content.

She was not in the least shy. Many a girl about to make her entree into a strange house would have been suffering qualms of misgiving by this time, but Claire had spent her life more or less in public, and was accustomed to meet strangers as a matter of course, so there was no dread to take the edge off her enjoyment.

Even when the taxi slowed down to take its place in the stream of vehicles which were drawn up before Mrs Willoughby's house, she knew only a heightened enjoyment in the realisation that it was not a party at all, but a real big fashionable At Home.

The usual crowd of onlookers stood on either side of the door, and as Claire descended from the taxi, the sight of her golden slippers and floating clouds of gauze evoked a gratifying murmur of admiration. She passed on with her head in the air, looking neither to right nor left, but close against the rails stood a couple of working girls whose wistful eyes drew her own as with a magnet. In their expression was a whole world of awe, of admiration; they looked at her as at a denizen of another sphere, hardly presuming even to be envious, so infinitely was she removed from their grey-hued life. As Claire met their eyes, an impulse seized her to stop and tell them that she was just a working girl like themselves, but convention being too strong to allow of such familiarities, she smiled instead, with such a frank and friendly acknowledgment of their admiration as brought a flash of pleasure to their faces.

"She's a real laidy, she is!" said Gladys to Maud; and Maud sniffed in assent, and answered strongly, "You bet your life!"

The inside of the house seemed out of all proportion with the outside appearance. This is a special peculiarity of the West End, which has puzzled many a visitor besides Claire Gifford. What is the magic which transforms narrow slips of buildings into spacious halls and imposing flights of stairways? Viewed from the street, the town houses of well-known personages seem quite inadequate for their purpose; viewed from within, they are all that is stately and appropriate. Those of us who live in less favoured neighbourhoods would fain solve the riddle.

Mrs Willoughby stood at the top of her own staircase, shaking hands with the stream of ascending guests, and motioning them forward to the suite of entertaining rooms from which came a steady murmur of voices. She was a stout woman, with a vast expanse of white shoulders which seemed to join right on to her head without any preliminary in the shape of a neck. Her hair was dark, and a plain face was lightened by a pair of exceedingly pleasant, exceedingly alert brown eyes. As soon as she met those eyes Claire felt assured that the kindness of which she had heard was a real thing, and that this woman could be counted upon as a friend. There was, it is true, a slight vagueness in the manner in which she made her greeting, but a murmur of "Mrs Fanshawe" instantly revived recollections.

"Of course—of course!" she cried heartily. "So glad you could come, my dear. I must see you later on. Reginald!"—she beckoned to a lad in an Eton suit—"I want you to take charge of Miss Gifford. Take her to have some coffee, and introduce her to some one nice."

A nod and a smile, and Mrs Willoughby had turned back to welcome the next guest in order, while the Eton boy offered his arm with the air of a prince of the blood, and led the way to a refreshment buffet around which the guests were swarming with an eagerness astonishing to behold when one realised how lately they must have risen from the dinner-table. Claire found her young cavalier very efficient in his attentions. He settled her in a comfortable corner, brought her a cup of coffee heaped with foaming cream, and gave it as his opinion that it was going to be "a beastly crush." Claire wondered if it would be tactful to inquire how he happened to be at home in the middle of a term; but while she hesitated he supplied the information himself.

"I'm home on leave. Appendicitis. Left the nursing home three weeks ago. Been at the sea, and came back yesterday in time for this show. Getting a bit tired of slacking!"

"You must be. Dear me! I am sorry. Too bad to begin so soon," murmured Claire pitifully; but Master Reginald disdained sympathy.

"Oh, I dunno," he said calmly. "It's quite the correct thing, don't you know? Everybody's doing it. Just as well to get it through. It might"—he opened his pale eyes with a startled look—"it might have come on in the hols! Pretty fool I should have looked if I'd been done out of winter sports."

"There's that way of looking at it!" Claire said demurely. For a moment she debated whether she should break the fact that she herself was a school-mistress, but decided that it would be wiser to refrain since the boy would certainly feel more at ease with her in her private capacity. So for the next half-hour they sat happily together in their corner, while the boy discoursed on the subjects nearest his heart, and the girl deftly switched him back to the subjects more congenial.

"Yes, I love cricket. At least I'm sure I should do, if I understood it better... Do tell me who is the big old lady with the eyeglass and the diamond tiara?"

"Couldn't tell you to save my life. Rather an out-size, isn't she? Towers over the men. I say! you ought to go to Lord's Will you turn up at Lord's next year to see our match? We might meet somewhere and I'd give you tea. Harrow won't have a chance. We've got a bowler who—"

"Can he really? How nice! Oh, that is a curious-looking man with the long hair! I'm sure he is something, or does something different from other people. Is he a musician, do you think? Do you ever have music on these evenings?"

"Rather! Sometimes the mater hires a big swell, sometimes she lets loose the amateurs. She knows lots of amateurs, y'know. People who are trying to be big-wigs, and want the chance to show off. The mater encourages them. Great mistake if you ask me, but you needn't listen if you don't want. She has one of these crushes once a month. Beastly dull, I call them. Can't think why the people come. But she gives them a rattling good feed. Supper comes on at twelve, in the dining-room downstairs."

But Claire was not interested in supper. All her attention was taken up in watching the stream of people passing by, and for a time the youth of her companion had seemed an advantage, since it made it easy to indulge her curiosity concerning her fellow-guests by a succession of questions which might have been boring to an adult. As time passed on, however, and she became conscious that more than one pair of masculine eyes turned in her direction, she wished frankly Master Reginald would remember his mother's instructions and proceed without further delay to introduce her to "someone nice." To return home and confess to Cecil that she had spent the evening in company with a schoolboy would be almost as humiliating as sitting alone in a corner.

It was at this point that Claire became aware of the presence of a very small, very wizened old woman sitting alone at the opposite side of the room, her mittened hands clawing each other restlessly in her lap, her sunken eyes glancing to right and left with a glance distinctly hostile. The passing of guests frequently hid her from view, but when a gap came again, there she sat, still alone, still twisting her mittened hands, still coldly staring around. Claire thought she looked a very disagreeable old lady, but she was sorry for her all the same. Horrid to be old and cross, and to be alone in a crowd! She put yet another question to the boy by her side.

"That," said Master Willoughby seriously, "is Great-aunt Jane. Great- aunt Jane is the skeleton in our cupboard. The mater says so, and she ought to know. Every time the mater has a show, the moment the door is opened, in comes Great-aunt Jane, and sits it out until every one has gone. If any one dares speak to her she snaps his head off, and if they let her alone, she's furious, and gives it to the mater after they're gone. Most of the crowd know her by now, and pretend they don't see, ... and she gets waxier and waxier. Would you like to be introduced?"

"Yes, please!" said Claire unexpectedly. She was tired of sitting in one corner, and wanted to move her position, but she was also quite genuinely anxious to try her hand at cheering poor cross Great-aunt Jane. The old lady pensionnaires in the "Villa Beau Sejour" had made a point of petting and flattering the pretty English girl, and Claire was complacently assured that this old lady would follow their example. But she was mistaken.

"Aunt Jane, Miss Gifford asks to be introduced to you. Miss Gifford— Lady Jane Willoughby."

Reginald beat a hurried retreat, and Claire seated herself at the end of the sofa and smilingly awaited her companion's lead. It did not come. After one automatic nod of the head, Lady Jane resumed her former position, taking no more notice of the new-comer than if she had remained at the far end of the room. Claire felt her cheeks begin to burn. Her complacence had suffered a shock, but pride came to her rescue, and she made a determined effort at conversation.

"That nice boy has been telling me that he has had appendicitis."

Lady Jane favoured her with a frosty glance.

"Yes, he has. Perhaps you will excuse me from talking about it. I object to the discussion of diseases at social gatherings."

Claire's cheeks grew hotter still. A quick retort came to her lips.

"I wasn't going to discuss it! I only mentioned it for—for something to say. I couldn't think how else to begin!"

The droop of Lady Jane's eyelids inferred that it was really quite superfluous to begin at all. Claire waited a whole two minutes by the clock, and then made another effort.

"I hear we are to have some music later on."

"Sorry to hear it," said Great-aunt Jane.

"Really! I was so glad. Aren't you fond of music, then?"

"I am very fond of music," said Aunt Jane, and there was a world of insinuation in her voice. Without a definite word being spoken, the hearer was informed that good music, real music, music worthy the name, was a thing that no sane person would expect to hear at Mrs Willoughby's "At Homes." She was really the most terrifying and disconcerting of old ladies, and Claire heartily repented the impulse which had brought her to her side. A pretty thing it would be if she were left alone on this sofa for the rest of the evening!

But fortune was kind, and from across the room came a good angel who was so exactly a reproduction of Mrs Willoughby herself, minus half her age, that it must obviously be her daughter. Janet Willoughby was not a pretty girl, but she looked gay, and bright, and beaming with good humour, and at this moment with a spice of mischief into the bargain. The manner in which she held out her hand to Claire was as friendly as though the two girls had been friends for years.

"Miss Gifford? I was sure it must be you. Mother told me to look for you. Aunt Jane, will you excuse my running away with Miss Gifford? Several people are asking to be introduced. Will you come with me, Miss Gifford? I want to take you into the music room."

Claire rose with a very leap of eagerness, and as soon as they had gained a safe distance, Miss Willoughby turned to her with twinkling eyes.

"I am afraid you were having a bad time! I caught sight of you across the room and was so sorry. Who took you over there? Was it that naughty Reginald?"

"He did, but I asked him. I thought she looked lonely. I thought perhaps she would be pleased."

Janet Willoughby's smile showed a quick approval.

"That was kind! Thanks for the good intention, but I can't let you be victimised any more. I want to talk to you myself, and half-a-dozen men have been asking for introductions to the girl with the green sash. You know Mrs Fanshawe, don't you? Isn't she charming? She and I are the greatest of chums. I always say she has never succeeded in growing older than seventeen. She is so delightfully irresponsible and impulsive. She wrote mother a charming letter about you. It made us quite anxious to meet you, but you know what town life is—a continual rush! Everything gets put off."

"It was awfully good of you to ask me at all, and very kind of Mrs Fanshawe to write. I only know her in the most casual way. We crossed over from Antwerp together, and her maid was ill, and I was able to be of some use, and when she heard that I was coming to work in London and that I knew nobody here—she—"

Jane Willoughby stared in frank amazement.

"Do you really mean that that was all? You met her only that one time? You know nothing of her home or her people?"

"Only that time. I hope—I hope you don't think—"

Claire suffered an anxious moment before she realised that for some unexplained reason Miss Willoughby was more pleased than annoyed by the intelligence. An air of something extraordinarily like relief passed over her features. She laughed gaily and said—

"I don't think anything at all except that it is delightfully like Mrs Fanshawe. She wrote as if she had known you for ages. As a matter of fact she probably does know you quite well. She is so extraordinarily quick and clever, that she crowds as much life into an hour as an ordinary person does into a week. She told us that you had chosen to come to London to work, rather than go to India and have a good time. How plucky of you! And you teach at one of the big High Schools... You don't look in the least like a school-mistress."

"Ah! I'm off duty to-night! You should see me in the morning, in my working clothes. You should see me at night, correcting exercises on the dining-table in a lodging-house parlour, and cooking sausages in a chafing-dish for our evening meal. I 'dig' with the English mistress, and do most of our cooking myself, as the landlady's tastes and ours don't agree. I'm getting to be quite an expert at manufacturing sixpenny dainties."

Janet Willoughby breathed a deep sigh; the diamond star on her neck sent out vivid gleams of light.

"What fun!" she sighed enviously. "What fun!" and as she spoke there flashed suddenly before the eyes of her listener a picture of the English mistress lying on the green plush sofa, her shabby slippers showing beneath the hem of her shabby skirt, spending the holiday Saturday evening at home because she had no invitations to go out, and no money to spare for an entertainment. "Oh, I do envy you!" sighed Janet deeply. "It's one of my greatest ambitions to share rooms with a nice girl, and live the simple life, and be free to do whatever one liked. Mother loves independence in other girls, but her principles don't extend to me. She says an only daughter's place is at home. But you are an only daughter, too."

"I am; but other circumstances were different. It was a case of being dependent on a stepfather or of working for myself—so I chose to work, and—"

"And I'm sure you never regret it!"

Claire extended her hands in the expressive French shrug.

"Ah, but I do! Horribly, at times. Even now, after three months' work I have a conviction that I shall regret it more and more as time goes on; but if I had to decide again, I'd do just the same. It's a question of principle versus so many things—laziness and self-indulgence, and wanting to have a good time, and the habits of a lifetime, and irritation with stupid girls who won't work."

Janet Willoughby gave a soft murmur of understanding.

"Yes, of course. Stupid of me to say that! Of course, you must get tired when you've never taught before. Does it bore you very much?"

"Teaching? Oh, no. As a rule I love it, and take a pride in inventing new ways to help the girls. It's the all work and no play that gets on one's nerves, and the feeling of being cut off from the world by an impassable barrier of something that really doesn't exist. People have a prejudice against school-mistresses. They think they are dull, and proper, and pedantic. If they want to be complimentary they say, 'You don't look like a school-mistress.' You did yourself, not two minutes ago. But really and truly they are just natural, everyday girls, wanting to have a good time in their leisure hours like other girls. You can't think how happy I was to come here to-night and have the chance of putting on pretty things again."

Janet Willoughby put her hand on Claire's arm and piloted her deftly through the crowd.

"Now," she said firmly, "you just stay here, and I'll bring up all the nicest men in the room, and introduce them in turns. You shall have a good time, and you are wearing the very prettiest things in the room—if it's any comfort to you to hear it. We won't talk about school any more. To-night is for fun!"

The next hour passed on flying feet, while Claire sat the queen of a little court, and Janet Willoughby flitted to and fro, bringing up fresh arrivals to be introduced, and drafting off the last batch to other parts of the crowded rooms. All the men were agreeable and amusing, and showed a flattering appreciation of their position. Claire felt no more interest in one than in another, but she liked them all, and felt a distinct pleasure in talking to men again after the convent-like existence of the last months. She was pleased to welcome a new-comer, smiled unconcerned at a farewell.

From time to time the buzz of voices was temporarily broken by the crash of the piano, but always before the end of each performance it rose again, and steadily swelled in volume. In truth, the excellence of the performance was no great inducement to listen, and Mrs Willoughby's forehead showed a pucker of anxiety. She drifted across to Claire's corner, and spoke a few kindly words of welcome, which ended in a half apology.

"I am sorry the music is so poor. It varies so much on different nights. Sometimes we have quite a number of good singers, but to-night there are none. I am afraid so much piano grows a little boring."

She looked in the girl's face with a quick inquiry.

"Do you sing?"

"No-o." The word seemed final, yet there was an unmistakable hesitation in Claire's voice. Mrs Willoughby's glance sharpened.

"But you do something? Play? Recite? What is it? My dear, I should be so grateful!"

"I—whistle!" confessed Claire with a blush, and a little babble of delight greeted the words. Every one who heard hailed the chance of a variety in the monotonous programme. Mrs Willoughby beamed with all the relief of a hostess unexpectedly relieved of anxiety.

"Delightful! Charming! My dear, it will be such a help! You would like an accompaniment? I'll introduce you to Mr Helder. He can play anything you like. Will you come now! I am sure every one will be charmed."

There was no time for a second thought. The next moment the long-haired Mr Helder was bowing over Claire's hand, and professing his delight. The little group in the corner were pressing forward to obtain a point of vantage, and throughout the company in general was passing a wordless hum of excitement. Mr Helder was seating himself at the piano, a girl in a white dress had ascended the impromptu platform and now stood by his side, a pretty girl, a very pretty girl, a girl who acknowledged the scattered applause with a smile which showed two dimples on one cheek, a girl who looked neither shy nor conceited, but simply as if she were enjoying herself very much, and expected everybody to do the same. She was going to sing. It would be a relief to listen to singing after the continued performances upon the piano. They hoped sincerely that she could sing well. Why didn't the accompaniment begin?

Then suddenly a white-gloved hand gave a signal, Mr Helder's hands descended on the keys, and at the same instant from between Claire's pursed-up lips there flowed a stream of high, flute-like notes, repeating the air with a bird-like fluency and ease. She had chosen the old-world ballad, "Cherry Ripe," the quaint turns and trills of which lent themselves peculiarly well to this method of interpretation, and the swing and gaiety of the measure carried the audience by storm. Looking down from her platform Claire could see the indifferent faces suddenly lighten into interest, into smiles, into positive beams of approval. At the second verse heads began to wag; unconsciously to their owners lips began to purse. It was inspiring to watch those faces, to know that it was she herself who had wrought the magic change.

Those moments for Claire were pure undiluted joy. Whistling had come to her as a natural gift, compensating to some extent for the lack of a singing voice; later on she had taken lessons, and practised seriously to perfect her facility. At school in Paris, later on in attending social gatherings with her mother, she had had abundant opportunities of overcoming the initial shyness; but indeed shyness was never a serious trouble with Claire Gifford, who was gifted with that very agreeable combination of qualities,—an amiable desire to please other people, and a comfortable assurance of her own powers.

At the end of the third verse the applause burst out with a roar. "Bravos" sounded from every side, and "Encores" persisted so strenuously that Claire was not permitted even to descend from her platform. Mrs Willoughby rustled forward full of gratitude and thanks. Mr Helder rubbed his hands, and beamingly awaited further commands... What would Cecil have to say to a success like this?

Claire's second choice was one of Mendelssohn's "Songs without Words," a quieter measure this time, sweet and flowing, and giving opportunity for a world of delicate phrasing. It was one of the pieces which she had practised with a master, and with which she felt most completely at home; and if the audience found it agreeable to hear, they also, to judge from their faces, found it equally agreeable to watch. Claire's cheeks were flushed to a soft rose-pink, her head moved to and fro, unconsciously keeping time with the air; one little golden shoe softly tapped the floor. Her unconsciousness of self added to the charm of the performance. But once the audience noticed, with sympathetic amusement, her composure was seriously threatened, so that the bird-like notes quavered ominously, and the twin dimples deepened into veritable holes. Claire had caught sight of Great-aunt Jane standing in solitary state at the rear of the throng of listeners, her mittened fingers still plucking, her eyes frosty with disapproval.

After that Claire safeguarded her composure by looking steadily downward at the points of her shoes until the end of the song approached, when it seemed courteous, once more, to face her audience. She raised her eyes, and as she did so her heart leapt within her with a startling force. She was thankful that it was the end, that the long final note was already on her lips, for there, standing in the doorway, his face upraised to hers, stood her knight of the railway station, the rescuer of the lost box—Erskine Fanshawe himself!



CHAPTER NINE.

THE SUPPER.

Claire stepped down from the platform to be surrounded by a throng of guests all eager to express their admiration of her interesting performance, to marvel how she could "do it," and to congratulate her upon so unusual an accomplishment; and she smiled and bowed, declared that it was quite easy, and perjured herself by maintaining that anyone could do as well, acutely conscious all the time that Captain Fanshawe was drawing nearer with determined steps, edging his way towards the front of the crowd. The next moment her hand was in his, and he was greeting her with the assurance of a lifelong friend.

"Good evening, Miss Gifford. Hadn't we better make straight for supper now? I am sure you must need it."

It was practically the ordinary invitation. There was nothing to find fault with in the words themselves, yet the impression of a previous arrangement was obviously left with the hearers, who fell back, giving way as to a superior right. As for Claire, she laid her hand on the extended arm, with all the good will in the world, and made a triumphant passage through the crowd, which smiled upon her as though agreeing that it was now her turn to be amused.

"This table, I think!" Captain Fanshawe said, leading the way to the furthest corner of the dining-room, and Claire found herself sipping a hot cup of soup, and realising that the world was an agreeable place, and that it was folly ever to allow oneself to be downhearted, since such delightful surprises awaited round corners ready to transform the grey into gold!

Captain Fanshawe looked exactly as memory had pictured him—plain of feature, distinguished in bearing, grave, self-contained, yet with that lurking light in his eyes which showed that humour lay beneath. Claire smiled at him across the table, and asked an obvious question—

"Rather a different meeting-place from our last! Did you know me at once?"

"I did," he said, and added deliberately, "Just as you knew me."

"Oh, well!" Claire tried to look unconcerned. "Men are always pretty much the same. Evening dress does not make the same difference to them."

She knew a momentary fear lest he should believe she was fishing for a compliment, and give the ordinary banal reply; but he looked at her with a grave scrutiny, and asked quietly—

"Was that one of the frocks which went astray?"

"Yes! All of it. It wasn't even divided in half."

"It was a good thing the box turned up!" he said; and there, after all, was the compliment, but so delicately inferred that the most fastidious taste could not object.

With the finishing of the soup came the first reference to Claire's work, for the Captain's casual "Do you care for anything solid, or would you prefer a sweet?" evoked a round-eyed stare of dismay.

"Oh, please!" cried Claire deeply. "I want to go straight through. I've been living on mutton and cabbage for over two months, and cooking suppers on a chafing-dish. I looked forward to supper as part of the treat!"

The plain face lightened into a delightful smile.

"That's all right!" he cried. "Now we know where we are. I hadn't much dinner myself, so I'm quite game. Let us study the book of the words."

A menu lay on the table, a square white card emblazoned with many golden words. Captain Fanshawe drew his chair nearer, and ran his finger down the list, while Claire bent forward to signify a yea or nay. Every delicacy in season and out of season seemed to find its place on that list, which certainly justified Master Reginald's eulogy of his mother's "good feeds." Claire found it quite a serious matter to decide between so many good things, and even with various curtailments, made rather out of pride than inclination, the meal threatened to last some considerable time.

Well! there was obvious satisfaction in the manner in which Captain Fanshawe delivered his orders, and for herself, she had been dignified and self-denying; she had resolutely shut the door between this man and herself, and devoted herself to work, and now, since fate had thrown him in her way for a chance hour, she could enjoy herself with a light mind. It was good to talk to a man again, to hear a deep masculine voice, to look at a broad strong frame. Putting aside all question of love and marriage, the convent life is no more satisfying than the monastic. Each sex was designed by God to be the complement of the other. Each must suffer from lack of the other's companionship.

"I arrived just as you began your performance," Captain Fanshawe informed her. "It was a great 'draw.' Everybody had crowded forward to listen. It was only towards the end of your second—er—how exactly should one express it?—morceau, that I managed to get into seeing line. It was a surprise! Have you known the Willoughbys long?"

Claire looked at him blankly.

"I never saw them before to-night. Your mother wrote to ask them if they would send me a card."

"Oh!" Captain Fanshawe was certainly surprised, and Claire mentally snubbed herself because at the bottom of her heart there had lain a suspicion that perhaps—just perhaps—he had come to-night in the hope of meeting his acquaintance of the railway station. This was not the case; no thought of her had been in his mind. Probably until the moment of meeting he had forgotten her existence. Never mind! They had met, and he was agreeable and friendly. Now for a delightful half-hour...

"That was a good thought of the mater's. You will like them. They are delightful people. Just the people you ought to know as a stranger in town. How goes the school teaching, by the way? As well as you expected?"

Claire deliberated, with pursed lips.

"No. I expected so much; I always do. But much better than other people expected for me. Theoretically it's a fine life. There are times when it seems that nothing could be finer. But—"

"But what?"

"I don't think it's quite satisfying, as a whole life!"

"Does anyone suppose it is?"

"They try to. They have to. For most teachers there is so little else."

The waiter handed plates of lobster mayonnaise, and Captain Fanshawe said quietly—

"Tell me about the times when the work seems fine."

"Ah—many times! It depends on one's own mood and health, because, of course, the circumstances are always the same. There are mornings when one looks round a big class-room and sees all the girls' faces looking upwards, and it gives one quite a thrilling sense of power and opportunity. That is what the heaven-born teacher must feel every time.—'Here is the fresh virgin soil, and mine is the joy of planting the right seed! Here are the women of the future, the mothers of the race. For this hour they are mine. What I say, they must hear. They will listen with an attention which even their parents cannot gain. The words which I speak this morning may bear fruit in many lives.' That's the ideal attitude, but the ordinary human woman has other mornings when all she feels is—'Oh, dear me, six hours of this! And what's the use? Everything I batter in to-day will be forgotten by to-morrow. What's the ideal anyway in teaching French verbs? I want to go to bed.'"

They laughed together, but Captain Fanshawe sobered quickly, and his brow showed furrows of distress. Claire looked at him and said quickly—

"Do you mind if we don't talk school? I am Cinderella to-night, wearing fine clothes and supping in state. I'd so much rather talk Cinderella to match."

"Certainly, certainly. Just as you wish." Lolling back in his chair, Captain Fanshawe adopted an air of blase indifference, and drawled slowly, "Quite a good winter, isn't it? Lots going on. Have you been to the Opera lately?"

"Oh dear!" thought Claire with a gush, "how refreshing to meet a grown- up man who can pretend like a child!" She simpered, and replied artificially, "Oh, yes—quite often. The dear Duchess is so kind; her box is open to me whenever I choose to go. Wonderful scene, isn't it? All those tiers rising one above another. Do you ever look up at the galleries? Such funny people sit there—men in tweed suits; girls in white blouses. Who are they, should you think? Clerks and typists and school-mistresses, and people of that persuasion?"

"Possibly, I dare say. One never knows. They look quite respectable and quiet, don't you know!"

The twinkle was alight in Captain Fanshawe's eyes. It shone more brightly still as he added, "Everybody turns up sooner or later in the Duchess's box. Have you happened to meet—the Prince!"

For a moment Claire groped for the connection, then dimpled merrily.

"Not yet. No! but I am hoping—"

The waiter approached with plates of chicken in aspic, and more rolls of crisp browned bread. Claire sent a thought to Cecil finishing a box of sardines, with her book propped up against the cocoa jug. The Cinderella role was forgotten while her eyes roved around, studying the silver dishes on the various tables.

"When you were a small boy, Captain Fanshawe, did you go out to parties?"

Captain Fanshawe knitted his brows. This charming girl was a little difficult to follow conversationally; she leapt from one subject to another with disconcerting agility.

"Er—pardon me! Is that question put to me in my—er—private, or imaginary capacity?"

"Private, of course. But naturally you did. Did you have pockets?"

"To the best of my remembrance I was disguised as a midshipmite, with white duck trousers of a prodigious width. They used to crackle, I remember. There was room for a dozen pockets."

Claire laid her arms on the table, so that her face drew nearer his own. Her voice fell to a stage whisper—

"Did you—ever—take—something—home?"

The Captain threw back his head with a peal of laughter.

"Miss Gifford, what a question! I was an ordinary human boy. Of course I did. And sat on my spoils in the carriage going back, and was scolded for spoiling my clothes. I had a small brother at home."

"Well—I have a small friend! She has letters after her name, and is very learned and clever, but she has a very sweet tooth. Do you think, perhaps—in this bag—"

"Leave it to me!" he said firmly, and when the waiter next appeared, he received an order to bring more bon-bons—plenty of bon-bons—a selection of all the small dainties in silver dishes.

"He thinks I am having a feast!" Claire said demurely, as she watched the progress of selection; then she met Erskine Fanshawe's eyes, and nodded in response to an unspoken question, "And I am! I'm having a lovely time!"

"I wish it were possible that you could oftener—"

"Well, who knows? A week ago I had made up my mind that nothing exciting would ever happen again, and then this invitation arrived. What a perfect dear Miss Willoughby seems to be!"

"Janet? She is!" he said warmly. "She is a girl who has had everything the world can give her, and yet has come through unspoiled. It's not often one can say that. Many society girls are selfish and vain, but Janet never seems to think of herself. You'd find her an ideal friend."

Claire's brain leapt swiftly to several conclusions. Janet Willoughby was devoted to Mrs Fanshawe; Mrs Fanshawe returned her devotion. Janet Willoughby was rich, and of good birth. Mrs Fanshawe had mentally adopted her as a daughter-in-law. Given the non-appearance of a rival on the scene, her desire would probably be fulfilled, since such sincere liking could easily ripen into love. Just for a moment Claire felt a stab of that lone and lorn feeling which comes to solitary females at the realisation of another's happiness; then she rallied herself and said regretfully—

"I'm afraid I shan't have the chance! Our lives lie too far apart, and my time is not my own. It is only an occasional Saturday-night that I can play Cinderella."

"What do you do on Sundays?"

"Go to church in the morning, and sleep in the afternoon. Sounds elderly, doesn't it? But I do enjoy that sleep. The hour after lunch is the most trying of the school day. It's all I can do sometimes to smother my yawns, and not upset the whole class. It's part of the Sunday rest to be able to let go, lie down hugging a hot bottle, and sleep steadily till it's time for tea."

"Where do you go to church?"

"Oh!" Claire waved an airy hand, "it depends! I've not settled down. I am still trying which I like best."

Across the table the two pairs of eyes met. The man's questioning, protesting, the girl's steadily defiant. "Why won't you tell me?" came the unspoken question. "Why won't you give me a chance?"

"I am too proud," came the unspoken answer. "Your mother did not think me good enough. I will accept no acquaintance by stealth."

Interruption came in the shape of the waiter bearing a tray of little silver dishes filled with dainties, which he proceeded to arrange in rows on the table. Claire relapsed into giggles at the sight, and Captain Fanshawe took refuge, man-like, in preternatural solemnity; but he made no comment, and the moment that the man had disappeared, both heads craned eagerly to examine the spoils.

"Chocolates, marrons glacis, crystallised peaches, French bon-bons, plums. I don't recognise them by head mark. These are too sticky... These look uncommonly good!" The big fingers hovered over each dish in turn, lifting sample specimens, and placing them on Claire's plate, whence they were swiftly conveyed to her bag. Not a single sweetmeat touched her own lips. The unconventionality of the action seemed to receive some justification from the fact that she was confiscating only her own share. When the waiter returned with ices, the little bag bulged suspiciously, and the silver dishes were no longer required. The waiter was ordered to carry them away, and plainly considered that some people did not know what they wanted.

"The only thing lacking is a cracker. I invariably purloined a cracker, and doubled up the ends. I suppose we are hardly near enough to Christmas. By the by, what are you doing for Christmas? You will have holidays, of course," Captain Fanshawe said, with an elaborate unconsciousness, and Claire kept her eyes on her plate.

"I may go to Belgium. I haven't decided."

"There seem to be a good many things you cannot—decide. Miss Gifford, you haven't forgotten what I asked you?"

"What did you ask?"

"That if ever I could help—if you ever needed help—"

"I shall want help badly during the next few weeks, when the examinations come on, and I have all the papers to set and correct."

Captain Fanshawe refused to smile.

"The kind of help that a man can give—"

"Yes, I remember. You were very kind, and I am still so much under the influence of the old life that I do feel you might be a comfort; but no doubt, after some more months of school-mistressing, I shall resent the idea that a man could do any more than I could myself. So it's a case of soon or never. You will hardly be cruel enough to wish to hasten my extremity!"

"I'm not so sure about that, if I could have the satisfaction of putting things to rights!"

It was while she was smiling her acknowledgment of this pretty speech that Claire became conscious of Janet Willoughby's eyes bent searchingly upon her. She had entered the room on the arm of her supper partner, and came to a pause not a yard away from the table where a very animated, apparently very intimate conversation was taking place between the son of her old friend and the girl to whom she had believed him to be unknown. As she met Claire's glance, Janet smiled automatically, but the friendliness was gone from her glance. The next moment Captain Fanshawe, had turned, seen her, and sprung to his feet.

"Janet! Are you waiting for a table? We have nearly finished. Won't you sit down and talk to Miss Gifford?"

"Oh, please don't hurry... We'll find another place. You have met before, then? I didn't know."

"I saw Miss Gifford when she was befriending my mother at Liverpool Street Station, and recognised her upstairs just now. Do sit down, Janet. You look tired."

Janet Willoughby took the offered chair and exchanged a few words with Claire as she gathered together her possessions, but the subtle change persisted. Claire felt vaguely disturbed, but the next half-hour passed so pleasantly that she had no time to puzzle over the explanation. Captain Fanshawe never left her side; they sat together on the same sofa which Great-aunt Jane had monopolised for the earlier part of the evening, and talked of many things, and discussed many problems, and sometimes agreed, and oftener disagreed, and when they disagreed most widely, looked into each other's eyes and smiled, as who should say, "What do words matter? We understand!"