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!