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!”