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 rôle 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, marróns 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!”

At one o’clock Claire rose to depart, and said her adieu to her hostess and her daughter, who were standing side by side.

“My dear, it is too bad.  I have had no time with you, and I am so grateful for the charming way in which you came to the rescue!  We shall hope to see you often again.  Shan’t we, Janet?  You girls must arrange a day which suits you both.”

“Oh, yes, we must!” Janet said, as she shook hands, but she made no attempt to make the arrangement there and then, as her mother obviously expected, and Claire realised, with a sinking of the heart, that a promised friendship had received a check.

When she descended to the hall wrapped in her filmy cloak it was to find Captain Fanshawe waiting at the foot of the stairs.  He looked worried and grave, and the front door was reached before he made the first remark.  Then, lingering tentatively on the threshold, he looked down at her with a searching glance.

“Is-er-is your address still the Grand Hotel?”

Claire’s face set into firm lines.

“Still the Grand Hotel!”

For a moment he looked her steadily in the eyes, then said quietly-

“And my address is still the Carlton Club!” He bowed, and turned into the house.

The footman banged the door of the taxi, and stood awaiting instructions.

“T-wenty-two, Laburnum Crescent,” said Claire weakly.  Halfway through the words a sudden obstacle arose in her throat.  It was all she could do to struggle through.  She hoped to goodness the footman did not notice.

“There now! what did I tell you?  You look fagged to death, and as cross as two sticks.  Five shillings wasted on taxis, and nothing for it but getting thoroughly upset.  Next time I hope you will take my advice!” said Cecil, and took up her candle to grope her way up the dark stairway to bed.