"About a fortnight, I think. I don't remember exactly."
"And you had never seen her before? She knew nothing about you?"
"She had never seen me before, but she _did_ know something about me.
Professionally speaking, she knew all there was to know."
"That accounts for it," said Miss Bates enigmatically. "I wondered--
You are not a bit the usual type."
"I hope that doesn't mean that I can't teach?"
Miss Bates laughed, and shrugged her thin shoulders. "Oh, no. I should
say, personally, that you teach very well. That play was
extraordinarily good. It absolutely sounded like French. Can't think
how you knocked the accent into them! English girls are so self-
conscious; they are ashamed of letting themselves go. Mademoiselle
thinks that your classes are too like play; but it doesn't matter what
she thinks, so long as--" she paused a moment, lowered her voice, and
added impressively, "Keep on the right side of Miss Farnborough. You
are all right so long as you are in her good books. Better be careful."
"What do you mean?" Claire stared, puzzled and discomposed, decidedly
on the offensive; but Miss Bates refused a definite answer.
"Nothing!" she said tersely. "Only--people who take sudden fancies, can
take sudden dislikes, too. Ask no more questions, but don't say I
didn't warn you, that's all!"
She lifted her coffee-cup, and strolled away, leaving Claire to reflect
impatiently, "_More_ poison! It's too bad. They won't _let_ one be
happy!"
Before the end of the week school work settled into its old routine, and
the days passed by with little to mark their progress. The English
climate was at its worst, and three times out of four the journey to
school was accomplished in rain or sleet. The motor-'buses were crammed
with passengers, and manifested an unpleasant tendency to skid; pale-
faced strap-holders crowded the carriages of the Tube; for days together
the sky remained a leaden grey. It takes a Mark Tapley himself to keep
smiling under such conditions. As Claire recalled the days when she and
her mother had sat luxuriously under the trees in the gardens of Riviera
hotels, listening to exhilarating bands, and admiring the outline of the
Esterels against the cloudless blue of the sky, the drab London streets
assumed a dreariness which was almost insupportable. Also, though she
would not acknowledge it to herself, she was achingly disappointed,
because something which she had sub-consciously been expecting did not
come to pass. She had expected something to happen, but nothing
happened; all through February the weeks dragged on, unrelieved by any
episode except the weekly mail from India.
The little brown bird still industriously piped the hour; but his
appearance no longer brought the same warm thrill of happiness. And
then one morning came a note from Janet Willoughby.
"Dear Miss Gifford,--
"I should really like to call you `Claire,' but I must wait to be asked!
I have been meaning to write ever since we returned from Saint Moritz;
but you know how it is in town, such a continual rush, that one can
never get through half the things that ought to be done! We should all
like to see you again. Mother has another `At Home' on Thursday evening
next, and would be glad to see you then, if you cared to come; but what
_I_ should like is to have you to myself! On Saturday next I could call
for you, as I did at Christmas, and keep you for the whole day. Then we
could talk as we couldn't do at the `At Homes,' which are really rather
dull, duty occasions.
"Let me know which of these propositions suits you best. Looking
forward to seeing you,--
"Your friend, (if you will have me!)
"Janet Willoughby."
Claire had opened the letter, aglow with expectation; she laid it down
feeling dazed and blank. For the moment only one fact stood out to the
exclusion of every other, and that was that Janet did not wish her to be
present at the "At Home." Mrs Willoughby had sent the invitation, but
Janet had supplemented it by another, which could not be refused. "I
would rather have you to myself." How was it possible to refuse an
invitation couched in such terms? How could one answer with any show of
civility, "I should prefer to come with the crowd?"
Claire carried the letter up to her cold bedroom, and sat down to do a
little honest thinking.
"It's very difficult to understand what one really wants! We deceive
ourselves as much as we do other people... Why am I so hideously
depressed? I liked going to the `At Home,' I liked dressing up, and
driving through the streets, and seeing the flowers and the dresses, and
having the good supper; but, if that were all, I believe I'd prefer the
whole day with Janet. I suppose, really, it's Captain Fanshawe that's
at the bottom of it. I want to meet him, I thought I should meet him,
and now it's over. I shan't be asked again when there's a chance of his
coming. Janet doesn't want me. She's not jealous, of course--that's
absurd--but she wants to keep him to herself, and she imagines somehow
that I should interfere--"
Imagination pictured Janet staring with puzzled, uneasy eyes across the
tables in the dining-room, of Janet drearily examining the piled-up
presents in the boudoir, and then, like a flash of light, showed the
picture of another face, now eager, animated, admiring, again grave and
wistful. "Is your address still the Grand Hotel?--_My_ address is still
the Carlton Club."
"Ah, well, well!" acknowledged Claire to her heart, "we _did_ like each
other. We did love being together, and he remembered me; he sent me the
clock when he was away. But it's all over now. That was our last
chance, and it's gone. He'll go to the At Home, and Mrs Willoughby
will tell him I was asked, but preferred to come when they were alone,
and he'll think it was because I wanted to avoid him, and--and, oh,
goodness, goodness, goodness! how _miserable_ I shall feel sitting here
all Thursday evening, imagining all that is going on! Oh, mother,
mother, your poor little girl is _so_ lonesome! Why did you go so far
away?"
Claire put her head down on the dressing-table, and shed a few tears, a
weakness bitterly regretted, for like all weaknesses the consequences
wrought fresh trouble. Now her eyelids were red, and she was obliged to
hang shivering out of the window, until they had regained their natural
colour, before she could face Cecil's sharp eyes.
Janet arrived soon after eleven o'clock on Saturday morning, and was
shown into the saffron parlour where Claire sat over her week's mending.
She wore a spring suit purchased in Paris, and a hat which was probably
smart, but very certainly was unbecoming, slanting as it did at a
violent angle over her plump, good-humoured face, and almost entirely
blinding one eye. She caught sight of her own reflection in the
overmantel and exclaimed, "What a fright I look!" as she seated herself
by the table, and threw off her furs. "Don't hurry, please. Let me
stay and watch. What are you doing? Mending a blouse? How clever of
you to be able to use your fingers as well as your brains! I never sew,
except stupid fancy-work for bazaars. So this is your room! You told
me about the walls. Can you imagine any one in cold blood choosing such
a paper? But it looks cosy all the same. I _do_ like little rooms with
everything carefully in reach. They are ever so much nicer than big
ones, aren't they?"
"No."
Janet pealed with laughter.
"That's right, snub me! I deserve to be snubbed. Of course, I meant
when you have big ones as well! Who is the pretty girl in the carved
frame? Your mother! Do you mean it, really? What a ridiculous mamma!
I'm afraid, Claire, I'm afraid she is even prettier than you!"
"Oh, she is; I know it. But I have more charm," returned Claire
demurely, whereat they laughed again--a peal of happy girlish laughter,
which reached Lizzie's ears as she polished the oilcloth in the hall,
and roused an envious sigh.
"It's well to be some folks!" thought poor Lizzie. "Motor-cars, and
fine dresses, and nothing to do of a Saturday morning but sit still and
laugh. I could laugh myself if I was in her shoes!"
Claire folded away her blouse, and took up a bundle of gloves.
"These are your gloves. They have been such a comfort to me. There's a
button missing somewhere. Tell me all about your holiday! Did you have
a good time? Was it as nice as you expected?"
"Yes. No. It _was_ a good time, but--do you think anything ever
_quite_ comes up to one's expectation? I had looked forward to that
month for the whole year, and had built so many fairy castles. You have
stayed in Switzerland? You know how the scene changes when the sun
sinks, how those beautiful alluring rose-coloured peaks become in a
minute awesome and gloomy. Well, it was rather like that with me. I
don't mean that it was gloomy; that's exaggerating, but it was prose,
and I had pictured it poetry. Heigho! It's a weary world."
Claire's glance was not entirely sympathetic.
"There are different kinds of prose. You will forgive my saying that
your especial sort is an _Edition de luxe_."
"I know! I know! You can't be harder on me than I am on myself. My
dear, I have a most sensible head. I'm about as practical and long-
headed as any woman of forty. It's my silly old heart which handicaps
me. It _won't_ fall into line... Have you finished your mending? May
I come upstairs and see your room while you dress?"
For just the fraction of a moment Claire hesitated. Janet saw the
doubt, and attributed it to disinclination to exhibit a shabby room; but
in reality Claire was proud of her attic, which a little ingenuity had
made into a very charming abode. Turkey red curtains draped the window,
a low basket-chair was covered in the same material, a red silk
eiderdown covered the little bed. On the white walls were a profusion
of photographs and prints, framed with a simple binding of leather
around the glass. The toilet table showed an array of well-polished
silver, while a second table was arranged for writing, and held a number
of pretty accessories. A wide board had been placed over the narrow
mantel, on which stood a few good pieces of china and antique silver.
There was nothing gimcrack to be seen, no one-and-elevenpenny ornaments,
no imitations of any kind; despite its sloping roof and its whitewashed
walls, it was self-evidently a lady's room, and Janet's admiration was
unfeigned.
"My dear, it's a lamb! I love your touches of scarlet. Dear me, you've
quite a view! I shall have sloping walls when I change my room. They
are _ever_ so picturesque. It's a perfect duck, and everything looks so
bright. They _do_ keep it well!"
"_I_ keep it well!" Claire corrected. "Lizzie `does' it every morning,
but it's not a doing which satisfies me, so I put in a little manual
labour every afternoon as a change from using my brain. I do all the
polishing. You can't expect lodging-house servants to clean silver and
brass."
"Can't you? No; I suppose you can't." Janet's voice of a sudden
sounded flat and absent. There was a moment's pause, then she added
tentatively, "You have a cuckoo clock?"
Claire was thankful that her face was screened from view as she was in
the process of tying on her veil. A muffled, "Yes," was her only reply.
Janet stood in front of the clock, staring at it with curious eyes.
"It's--it's like--there were some just like this in a shop at Saint
Moritz."
"They are all much alike, don't you think?"
"I suppose they are. Yes--in a way. Some are much better than others.
This is one of the best--"
"Yes, it is. It keeps beautiful time. I had it in the sitting-room,
but Miss Rhodes objected to the noise."
"Was it in Saint Moritz that you bought it?"
"I didn't buy it. It was a present."
That finished the cross-questioning, since politeness forbade that Janet
should go a step further and ask the name of the friend, which was what
she was obviously longing to do. She stood a moment longer, staring
blankly at the clock, then gave a little sigh, and moved on to examine
the ornaments on the mantelpiece. Five minutes later the two girls
descended the staircase, and drove away from the door.
The next few hours passed pleasantly enough, but Claire wondered if it
were her own imagination which made her think that Janet's manner was
not quite so frank and bright as it had been before she had caught sight
of the cuckoo clock. She never again said, "Claire"; but her brown eyes
studied Claire's face with a wistful scrutiny, and from time to time a
sharp little sigh punctuated her sentences.
"But what could I tell her?" Claire asked unhappily of her sub-
conscience. "I don't _know_--I only think; and even if he _did_ send
it, it doesn't necessarily affect his feelings towards her. He was
going to see her in a few days; and she is rich and has everything she
wants, while I am poor and alone. It was just kindness, nothing more."
But though her head was satisfied with such reasoning, her heart, like
Janet's, refused to fall into line.
At tea-time several callers arrived, foremost among them a tall man whom
Claire at once recognised as the original of a portrait which stood
opposite to that of Captain Fanshawe on the mantelpiece of Janet's
boudoir. This was "the kind man, the thoughtful man," the man who
remembered "little things," and in truth he bore the mark of it in every
line of his good-humoured face. Apart from his expression, his
appearance was ordinary enough; but he was self-evidently a man to
trust, and Claire found something pathetic in the wistful admiration
which shone in his eyes as they followed Janet Willoughby about the
room. To ordinary observers she was just a pleasant girl with no
pretensions to beauty; to him she was obviously the most lovely of her
sex. He had no attention to spare for Claire or the other ladies
present; he was absorbed in watching Janet, waiting for opportunities to
serve Janet, listening eagerly to Janet's words. It is not often that
an unengaged lover is so transparent in his devotion, but Malcolm Heward
was supremely indifferent to the fact that he betrayed his feelings.
At ten o'clock Claire rose to take leave, and Mrs Willoughby made a
request.
"I am going to ask you to do me a favour, dear. A friend is having a
Sale of Work at her house for a charity in which we are both interested,
and she has asked me to help. It is on a Saturday afternoon and
evening, and I wondered if I might ask you to take part in the little
concerts. Whistling is always popular, and you do it so charmingly. I
would send the car for you, and take you home, of course, and be so very
much indebted. You don't mind my asking?"
"No, indeed; I should be delighted. Please let me help you whenever you
can."
In the bedroom upstairs Janet deliberately introduced Malcolm Heward's
name.
"That was the man I told you about at Christmas. He was one of the
party at Saint Moritz. What did you think of him?"
"I liked him immensely. He looks all that you said he was. He has a
fine face."
"He wants to marry me."
Claire laughed softly.
"That's obvious! I never saw a man give himself away so openly."
"Do you think I ought to accept him?"
"Oh, how can I say? It's not for me to advise. I hope, whoever you
marry, you'll be very, very happy!"
Suddenly Janet came forward and laid her hands on Claire's arm.
"Oh, Claire, I do like you! I do want to be friends, but sometimes I
have the strangest thoughts." Before Claire had time to answer, she had
drawn back again, and was saying with a little apologetic laugh, "I am
silly! Take no notice of what I say. Here's your fur; here's your
muff. Are you quite sure you have all your possessions?"