In the street outside the church door the two girls shook hands and exchanged greetings.  Janet wore a long fur coat, and a toque of dark Russian sable, with a sweeping feather at one side.  The price of these two garments alone would equal the whole of Claire’s yearly salary, but it had the effect of making the wearer look clumsy and middle-aged compared with the graceful simplicity of the other’s French-cut costume.  Janet Willoughby was not thinking of clothes at that moment, however; she was looking at reddened eyelids, and remembering the moment when she had seen a kneeling figure suddenly shaken with emotion.  The sight of those tears had wiped away the rankling grudge which had lain at her heart since the evening of her mother’s At Home, and revived the warm liking which at first sight she had taken to this pretty attractive girl.

“Which way are you going?  May I walk with you?  It’s just the morning for a walk.  I hope it will keep cold and bright over Christmas.  It’s so inappropriate when it’s muggy.  Last year we were in Switzerland, but mother is old-fashioned, and likes to have the day at home, so this time we don’t start till the new year.  You are not going sporting by any chance?”

“I’m not!” said Claire, and, for all her determination, could not resist a grimace, so far from sporting seemed the prospect ahead.  Janet caught the grimace, and smiled in sympathy, but the next moment her face sobered.

“But I hope you are going to have jolly holidays?”

“Oh, I hope so.  Oh, yes, I mean to enjoy them very much,” Claire said valiantly, and swiftly turned the subject.  “Where do you go in Switzerland?”

“Saint Moritz.  We’ve gone there for years-a large party of friends.  It has become quite a yearly reunion.  It’s so comfy to have one’s own party, and be independent of the other hoteliers.  They may be quite nice, of course, but then, again, they may not.  I feel rather mean sometimes when I see a new arrival looking with big eyes at our merry table.  Theoretically, I think one ought to be nice to new-comers in an hotel.  It’s such a pelican-in-the-wilderness feeling.  I’d hate it myself, but practically I’m afraid I’m not particularly friendly.  We are so complete that we don’t want outsiders.  They’d spoil the fun.  Don’t you think one is justified in being a little bit selfish at Christmas-time?”

Claire laughed, her old, happy, gurgling laugh.  It warmed her heart to have Janet Willoughby’s companionship once more.

“It isn’t exactly the orthodox attitude, is it?  Perhaps you will be more justified this year, after you have got through your Christmas duties at home.”

“Yes!  That’s a good idea.  I shall, for it was pure unselfishness which prevented me running away last week with the rest of the party.  Mother would have given in if I’d persisted, and I wanted to so dreadfully badly.”  She sighed, and looked quite dejected, but Claire remained unmoved.

“I don’t pity you one bit.  You have only a week to wait.  That’s not a great trial of patience!”

“Oh, yes, it is.-Sometimes!” said Janet with an emphasis which gave the words an added eloquence.

Claire divined at once that Switzerland had an attraction apart from winter sports-an attraction centred in some individual member of the merry party.  Could it by any chance be Erskine Fanshawe?  She longed to ask the question.  Not for a hundred pounds would she have asked the question.  She hoped it was Captain Fanshawe.  She hoped Janet would have a lovely time.  Some girls had everything.  Some had nothing.  It was unfair-it was cruel.  Oh, dear, what was the use of going to church, and coming out to have such mean, grudging thoughts?  Janet Willoughby too!  Such a dear!  She deserved to be happy.  Claire forced a smile, and said bravely-

“It will be all the nicer for waiting.”

“It couldn’t be nicer,” Janet replied.

Then she looked in the other girl’s face, and it struck her that the pretty eyelids had taken an additional shade of red, and her warm heart felt a throb of compunction.  “Grumbling about my own little bothers, when she had so much to bear-hateful of me!  I’ve been mean not to ask her again; mother wanted to; but she’s so pretty.  I admired her so much that I was afraid-other people might too!  But she was crying; I saw her cry.  Perhaps she is lonely, and it’s my fault-”

“What do you generally do on Sundays?” she asked aloud.  “There are lots of other mistresses at your school, aren’t there?  I suppose you go about together, and have tea at each other’s rooms in the afternoon, and sit over the fire at night and talk, and brew cocoa, as the girls do in novels.  It all sounds so interesting.  The girls are generally rather plain and very learned; but there is always one among them who is like you.  I don’t mean that you are not learned-I’m sure you are-but-er- pretty, you know, and attractive, and fond of things!  And all the others adore her, and are jealous if she is nicer to one than to the others...”

Claire grimaced again, more unrestrainedly than before.

“That’s not my part.  I wish it were.  I could play it quite well.  The other mistresses are quite civil and pleasant, but they don’t hanker after me one bit.  With two exceptions, the girl I live with, and one other, I have not spoken to one of them out of school hours.  I don’t even know where most of them live.”

Janet’s face lengthened.  Suddenly she turned and asked a sharp direct question: 

“Where are you going on Christmas Day?”

Pride and weakness struggled together in Claire’s heart, and pride won.  She would not pose as an object of pity!

“Oh, I’m going-out!” said she with an air, but Janet Willoughby was not to be put off so easily as that.  Her brown eyes sent out a flash of light.  She demanded sternly: 

“Where?”

“Really-” Claire tossed her head with the air of a duchess who was so overburdened with invitations that she found it impossible to make a choice between them.  “Really, don’t you know, I haven’t quite decided-”

“Claire Gifford, you mean, horrid girl, don’t dare to quibble!  You are going nowhere, and you know it.  Nobody has invited you for Christmas Day; that’s why you were crying just now-because you had nowhere to go.  And you would have gone away this morning, and said nothing, and sat alone in your rooms...  I call it mean!  Talk of the spirit of Christmas!  It’s an insult to me and to mother.  How do you suppose we should have felt if we’d found out afterwards?”

“W-what else could I do?  How could I tell you?” stammered Claire, blushing.  “It would have seemed such a barefaced hint, and I detest hints.  And really why should you have felt bad?  I’m a stranger.  You’ve only seen me once.  There could be no blame on you.  There’s no blame on anyone.  It just happens that it doesn’t quite fit in to visit friends at a distance, and in town-well!  I’m a stranger, you see.  I have no friends!”

Janet set her lips.

“Just as a matter of curiosity I should like to know exactly what you were going to do?  You said, I believe, that you were going out.  And now you say you had nowhere to go.  Both statements can’t be true-”

“Oh, yes, they can.  I have nowhere to go, but I had to find somewhere, because my good landlady is going to her mother’s at Highgate, and disapproves of lodgers who stay in on Christmas Day.  She gave me notice that I must go out as the house would be locked up.”

“But where-what-where could you go?”

“I thought of a restaurant and a concert, and a station waiting-room to fill in the gaps.  Quite comfortable, you know.  They have lovely fires, and with a nice book-”

“If you don’t stop this minute I shall begin to cry-here, in the open street!” cried Janet hotly.  “Oh, you poor dear, you poor dear!  A station waiting-room.  I never heard of anything so piteous.  Oh, how thankful I am that I met you!  Tell me honestly, was it about that that you were crying?”

“Y-yes, it was.  I was saying a little prayer and trying not to feel lonesome, and then I looked round and saw-you.”

“End of volume one!” cried Janet briskly.  “No more waiting-rooms, my dear.  You must come to us for the whole of Christmas Day.  I wish I could ask you to stay, but we are chock-a-block with cousins and aunts.  I’ll come round in my car in time to take you to church, and send you back at night after the Highgate revels are over.  We can’t offer you anything very exciting, I’m afraid-just an old-fashioned homey gathering.”

“It’s just what I want.  I am thirsty for a home; but your mother-what will she say?  Will she care for a stranger-”

“Mother says what I say,” Janet declared with the assurance of an only daughter.  “And she’ll say in addition, `What a blessing!  She’ll whistle for us, and amuse Aunt Jane.’  Did you realise that Aunt Jane was coming?  She’s generally very cross all day, and makes a point of giving away her presents to other members of the party under the very noses of the givers, to let them see what she thinks of their choice.  The great idea is to sit down by her quickly when you see her begin to fumble with something you would like to have.  I got quite a nice bag that way last Christmas!”

Presents!  That was another idea.  Claire went home mentally reviewing her own treasures with a view to selecting some trifle which Janet in the midst of her plenty might still be glad to receive.  She decided on a silver clasp of quaint Breton manufacture, which had the merit that in the whole of London it would be impossible to purchase another to match.

Claire returned to her room in a frame of mind vastly different from that in which she had started forth.  Her buoyant spirits soared upwards at the prospect of a Christmas spent in the midst of a happy family party, and all the difficulties of life seemed to dissolve into thin air, since, after the providential meeting just vouchsafed, it seemed faithless to doubt that future difficulties would be solved in the same way.

She intended to devote the afternoon to writing a long letter to her mother, which had been delayed owing to her recent depression of spirits, for it seemed cruel to write in a pessimistic strain to the happy bride, who now, more than ever, saw everything couleur de rose.  Mrs Judge’s present had arrived the week before, in the shape of a richly embroidered Indian table-cloth, for which her daughter had as much use as she herself would have found for a fur rug.  To use it in the saffron parlour was a sheer impossibility, for every separate article of furniture shrieked at it, and it shrieked at them in return; so Claire folded it away at the bottom of her box, reflecting, between a sigh and a smile, that the choice was “just like mother.”  It was not agreeable to the bride to picture her daughter living in an ugly lodging-house parlour, so she had mentally covered the ugliness beneath the gorgeous embroidery of that cloth, and happily dismissed the subject from her mind.  At the time of the opening of the parcel, Claire had felt a sense of sharp disappointment, amounting even to irritation, but this morning she could see the humour of the situation, and she chuckled softly to herself as she walked homeward, rehearsing words of thanks that would be at once cordial and truthful.  “Just what I wanted,” was plainly out of the question; “So useful” was also ruled out, but she could honestly admire the workmanship of the cloth, and enlarge on the care with which it should be preserved!  It was an easy task to satisfy a correspondent who was eager to interpret words into the meaning most agreeable to herself!

Claire entered the house prepared to devote herself to writing letters to absent friends, but the excitements of the day were not yet over, for the little maid met her on the threshold with the exciting intelligence that a gentleman was in the parlour waiting to see her.

The feuilleton made an exciting leap forward, as Lizzie watched the blood rush into the “first floor’s” cheeks, and ebb away suddenly, leaving her white and tense.  “Struck all of a heap, like!  I shouldn’t have thought meself as she’d look at him!  Queer thing, love!” soliloquised Lizzie, as she clumped down the kitchen stairs, and returned to her superintendence of Sunday’s “jint.”

The “first floor” meanwhile stood motionless in the oil-clothed hall, struggling to regain self-possession before turning the handle of the door.  A gentleman waiting to see her!  Who could the gentleman be?  But at the bottom of her heart Claire believed the question to be superfluous, for there was only one “gentleman” who could possibly come.  Captain Fanshawe had found out her address, and it was Christmas-time, when a visitor was justified in counting on a hospitable reception.  At Christmas-time it would be churlish for a hostess to deny a welcome.  Every pulse in Claire’s body was throbbing with anticipation as she flung open that door.

The visitor was standing with his back towards her, bending low to examine a photograph on the mantelpiece.  At the sound of her entrance he straightened himself and wheeled round, and at the sight of his face Claire’s heart dropped heavy as lead.  They stood for a moment staring in a mutual surprise, the girl’s face blank with disappointment, the man’s brightening with interest.

He was a tall, thickly-set man, trim and smart in his attire, yet with a coarseness of feature which aroused Claire’s instant antagonism.  Compared with the face she had expected to see, the florid good looks which confronted her were positively repugnant.  Before the obvious admiration of the black eyes she stiffened in displeasure.

“You wished to see me?”

“Miss Gifford, I believe!  I called about a little matter of a parcel for Miss Rhodes.  To be sent on.  I wanted to ask if you-”

“Oh, certainly!  I shall be delighted.”

Claire thawed at the prospect of a present for Cecil, but could it be possible that it was this man with the flushed cheeks, and harsh, uncultivated voice, who had so revolutionised Cecil’s life!  Could it be for the delectation of those bold eyes that she had worked far into the night, contriving her pitiful fineries?  Claire’s instinctive dislike was so strong that she would not seat herself and so give an opportunity for prolonging the interview; she crossed the room to a bureau that stood in the corner, and took a slip of paper from one of the pigeon-holes.

“Perhaps it would be simpler if I gave you the address?”

The man laughed complacently.

“No need, thank you, I’ve got it all right, but it’s safer not to write.  The old lady, you know!  Parcel coming in for her daughter addressed in a man’s writing-no end of fuss and questioning.  You know what old ladies are!  Never satisfied till they’ve ferreted to the bottom of everything that comes along.  It’s not good enough, that sort of thing, but she’ll expect a present.  It’s all stamped and made up, if you’ll be good enough just to address it, and slip it into the post to-morrow.”

He put his hand in his pocket as he spoke and drew out a little package some two inches square, the sort of package which might contain an article of jewellery, such as a brooch or ring.  Could it by any chance be an engagement ring?  Claire’s blood shuddered as she took the little packet and dropped it quietly on the bureau.

“Certainly I will post it.  Do you wish it registered?”

He looked at her sharply as though suspicious of an under-meaning to the inquiry, then, meeting the glance of her clear eyes, had the grace to look ashamed.

“N-no.  No!  It is not worth while.  A trifle, just a trifle-Christmas, you know-must do the proper thing!” He mumbled vaguely the while he collected his hat and gloves, the aloofness in Claire’s attitude making it impossible to prolong the interview; but as he held out his hand in farewell, his self-possession returned.  He laughed meaningly, and said-

“Odd, you know; I imagined that you were quite old!  Miss Rhodes gave me that impression.  Nothing definite, you know; no false statements; just the way she spoke.  Clever of her, what?-very clever!  Knew better than to spoil her own game!”

If looks could have slain, the saffron parlour would have seen a dead man at that moment.  Claire withdrew her hand, and surreptitiously rubbed it against her skirt.  She would not condescend to notice that last remark.

“I’ll post the parcel to-morrow.  Perhaps you will tell me your name, as I shall have to explain.”

He drew out a pocket-book and extracted a card.  Claire dropped it unread upon the table, and bowed stiffly in farewell.  The next moment he was gone, and she could satisfy her curiosity unseen.  Then came surprise number two, for the card bore the inscription, “Major J.F.  Carew,” and in the corner two well-remembered words, “Carlton Club.”  An officer in the Army-who would have thought it!  He was emphatically not a gentleman; he was rough, coarse, mannerless, yet he was in a position which would bring him into intimate association with gentle people; by a strange coincidence, he might know, he almost certainly would know, the man whom she had expected to see in his stead-Erskine Fanshawe himself!  They could never be friends, but they would meet, they would sit in the same rooms, they would exchange occasional remarks.  Claire’s mood of intolerable disgust changed suddenly into something strangely approaching envy of this big rough man!  Christmas morning brought Janet bright and early, to find Claire standing at the window ready to rush out the moment the car stopped at the door.  It felt delightfully luxurious to seat herself on the springy cushions, draw the fur rug over her knees, and feel the warmth of a hot tin beneath her feet.

“Wasn’t it lacerating?” Janet cried.  “Just as I was starting the parcel post arrived, and there were about half-a-dozen parcels for me from Saint Moritz!  There was no time to open them, and I simply die to know what’s inside.  I care about those presents more than anything else.  We had our family presents this morning.  Mother gave me this.”  She opened her coat to show a glittering crescent.  “Quite pretty, isn’t it, but I’d rather have had pearls.  That’s the worst of Christmas presents, you so seldom get what you want.  Half the time you feel more disappointed than pleased.  People cling to the idea that they ought to give you a surprise, and you are surprised, but not in the way they expect.  I have given mother thousands of hints about pearls.  Ah, well!” She hooked the coat with an air of resignation.  “We must take the will for the deed.  Have you had nice things?”

“My mother sent me a very handsome present,” Claire said demurely.  She had no personal agitations about the day’s post; but she did feel interested in the thought of those parcels from Switzerland which lay awaiting Janet Willoughby’s return.  Half eager, half shrinking, she looked forward to seeing their contents.

It was in Janet’s dainty boudoir that the unpacking took place.  The two girls went straight upstairs on their return from church, and there, on a gate-legged table, lay the pile of parcels which had arrived by the morning’s delivery.  Janet pounced upon the Swiss packets, and cut the fastenings with eager haste.  From across the room Claire watched her eager face as she read the inscriptions one by one.  As she neared the end of the pile, the eagerness became tinged with anxiety; she picked up the last parcel of all, and the light died out of her face.

Claire turned aside and affected to be absorbed in examining the contents of an old cabinet, and Janet moved to the nearer side of the table so that her face was hidden from view; after a few minutes of silence, she broke the silence in a voice of forced lightness.

“Won’t you come and look at my trophies?  Switzerland is not a very happy hunting-ground, for there is so little variety to be had.  That’s my fifth carved chalet, and about the seventeenth bear.  Rather a dear, though, isn’t he?  Such a nice man sent it-one of the nicest of men.  That’s his photograph on the mantelpiece.”

Claire looked, met a straight keen glance which lived in her memory, and felt a tingle of blood in her cheeks.  Janet’s eyes followed hers, and she said quickly-

“Not that; that’s Erskine Fanshawe.  He is a casual person, and doesn’t go in for presents.  He hasn’t even troubled to send a card.  I meant the man in the leather frame.  He always remembers.  I do like that, in a man!  They are all good enough in an emergency, but so few of them think of the nice little things!” Janet sighed, and dropped the carved wooden bear on to the table.  However much she might appreciate the donor’s thoughtfulness, it had not had a cheering effect.  The light had died out of her eyes, and she turned over the various trophies without a trace of the enthusiasm with which she had torn open the parcel.  Claire standing beside her felt torn between sympathy and a guilty sense of relief.  She was sorry for Janet’s obvious disappointment, but she was also (it was a dog-in-the-manger feeling, for how could it possibly affect herself?) relieved that Captain Fanshawe was not the donor of the bear!

As the two girls stood together turning over the little collection of carved toys, Claire slipped her hand through Janet’s arm with an affectionate pressure, which was an outward apology for the inward disloyalty, and Janet stretched out her own hand to clasp it with unexpected fervour.

“Oh, I am glad you are here!  I’m glad to have another girl!  Girls understand.  I wish I hadn’t opened those horrid old parcels.  It’s just as I said-presents are disappointing.  Now I feel thoroughly humped and dumpy!  It’s so stupid, too, for I know quite well that I’ve every sane reason to be pleased.  How exasperating it is that one’s head and one’s heart so seldom agree!”

Claire gave the plump arm another squeeze, but made no further answer.  She was afraid to show how well she understood.  Janet would forget her hasty words, and believe that her secret was locked within her own breast; but the other girl realised the position as clearly as if she had been told in so many words-“I am in love with one man, and another man is in love with me.  I am throwing away the substance for the shadow!”

“Ah, well, such is life!” continued Janet, sighing.  “Now I’m supposed to go downstairs and be the life of the party!  How I do dislike family parties!  Mother says it’s the ideal thing for relations to gather together for Christmas Day, but I’ve been gathered together for so many years!”

“You are too well-off, my dear, that’s what’s the matter!  I have never met a girl before who had so much to make her happy, and yet you are not satisfied.  How would you like to be a High School-mistress living in poky lodgings, not able to have a holiday because she can’t afford two rents, and getting only one present all told?”

Janet looked at her quickly.

“Have you had only one?”

“I said a High School-mistress, not any special mistress, but I will be definite if you like.  How would you like to be Me?”

Janet turned suddenly, laid her free hand on Claire’s shoulder, and stared deeply into her face.

“I-don’t-know!” she said slowly.  “Sometimes I think it’s just what I should like.  I have a great deal, but you have more.  Look at our two faces in that glass!”

She drew Claire round so that they stood in front of the Chippendale mirror over the mantelpiece, from whence a row of pictured faces stared back, as though stolidly sitting in judgment.  The clear tints of Claire’s skin made Janet look sallow and faded, the dark curve of her eyebrows under the sweep of gold brown hair, the red lips and deeply cleft chin, made Janet’s indeterminate features look insignificant, the brown eyes seemed the only definite feature in her face, and they were clouded with depression.

“Look at yourself,” she said deeply, “and look at me!”

It was an awkward moment, and Claire shrugged uncomfortably.

“But my face is-it has to be-my fortune!”

“Oh, beauty!  I wasn’t thinking of beauty,” Janet cried unexpectedly.  “You are very pretty, of course, but heaps of girls are pretty.  It’s something more-I suppose it is what is called Charm.  When people see you once, they remember you; they want to see you again.  You make a place for yourself.  I am one in a crowd.  People like me well enough when they are with me, but-they forget!”

“And I never meet anyone to remember.  We’re two love-lorn damsels, and this is Merrie Christmas.  Would you have thought it?” cried Claire, and that wrought the desired effect, for Janet awoke with a shock to her responsibilities as hostess, and led the way downstairs to join the rest of the house-party.

The rest of the day was spent in conventional English fashion in a praiseworthy effort to sustain spirits at concert pitch, and keep up a continuous flow of gaiety, a mountainous task when guests are brought together by claims of birth, without consideration as to suitability!  Mrs Willoughby’s party consisted of four distinct elements; there were Great-aunt Jane, and second cousin William, two octogenarians, who for health’s sake dined early all the year round, and sipped a cup of Benger at eight, but who dauntlessly tackled sausages and plum pudding on Christmas Day, and suffered for it for a week to come.  There were Mr and Mrs Willoughby, and two cousin husbands and their wives, and a spinster aunt to represent the next generation, then came sweet and twenty as represented by Janet and Claire, followed by Reginald of Eton, on whom they looked down as a mere boy, the while he in his turn disdained to notice the advances of two curly-headed cousins of nine and ten!  Claire enjoyed herself because it was in her nature to enjoy, and it felt good to be once more in a beautiful, well-appointed home, among friends; but driving home in the taxi she yawned persistently from one door to the other.  It was dreadfully tiring work being pleasant at the same time to the whole five ages of man!

With the opening of the door of the saffron parlour came an end of sleepiness, for on the table lay a square parcel, and the parcel bore the same stamp, the same markings which she had seen duplicated in Janet Willoughby’s boudoir!  Red as a rose was Claire as she stared at the bold masculine writing of the address, tore open the wrappings of the box, and drew forth a carved cuckoo clock with the well-known chalet roof and long pendulum and chains.  It was an exquisite specimen of its kind, the best that could be obtained, but for the moment Claire had no attention to spare for the gift itself; she was absorbed in hunting among the paper and straw for a card which should settle the identity of the donor.  Not a line was to be found.  Pink deepened to crimson on Claire’s cheeks.

“Who in the world could have sent it?  Who could it be?” She played at bewilderment, but in spite of herself the dimples dipped.  “Now how in the world has he found out my address?” asked Claire of herself.

For the next week Claire experienced the sensation of being “alone in London.”  From the evening of Christmas Day until Cecil returned on January 2nd, not one friendly word did she hear; she walked abroad among a crowd of unknown faces, she returned to a solitary room.

Miss Farnborough was spending the Christmas abroad; the other mistresses were either visiting or entertaining relations, the ladies of the committee were presumably making merry each in her own sphere.  It was no one’s business to look after the new member of the staff out of term time, and no one troubled to make it her business.

The only friendly sound which reached Claire’s ears during those days was the striking of the cuckoo clock, as a minute before every hour a sliding door flew open, and a little brown bird popped out and piped the due number of cuckoos in a clear, sweet note.  Claire loved that little bird; the sight of him brought a warmth to her heart, which was as sunshine lighting up the grey winter days.  Someone had remembered!  Someone had cared!  In the midst of a merry holiday, time and thought had been spared for her benefit.

The presence of the cuckoo clock preserved Claire from personal suffering, but during that silent week there was borne in upon her a realisation of the loneliness of the great city which was never obliterated.  A girl like herself, coming to London without introductions, might lead this desert life, not for a week alone, but for years!  Her youth might fade, might pass away, she might grow middle-aged and old, and still pass to and fro through crowded street, unnoted, uncared for, unknown beyond the boundaries of the schoolroom or the office walls.  A working-woman was as a rule too tired and too poor to join societies, or take part in social work which would lead to the making of friends; she was dependent on the thoughtfulness of her leisured sisters, and the leisured sisters were too apt to forget.  They invited their own well-off friends, exhausted themselves in organising entertainments which were often regarded as bores pure and simple, and cast no thought to the lonely women sitting night after night in lodging-house parlours.  “If I am ever rich-if I ever have a home, I’ll remember!” Claire vowed to herself.  “I’ll take a little trouble, and find out!  I couldn’t do a hundredth or a thousandth part of what ought to be done, but I’d do my share!” Cecil announced her return for the evening of January 2nd, and remindful of the depressing influence of her own arrival, Claire exerted herself to make the room look as homelike as possible, and arranged a dainty little meal on a table spread with a clean cloth and decorated with a bowl of holly and Christmas roses.  At the first sound of Cecil’s voice she ran out into the hall, hugged her warmly, and relieved her of a bundle of packages of all sorts and sizes.

“You look a real Mother Christmas hidden behind parcels.  What are they all?  Trophies?  You have come off well!  It is lovely to see you back.  If you’d stayed away the whole time I think I should have grown dumb.  My tongue would have withered from sheer lack of use.  I never realised before how much I love to talk.  I do hope you feel sociable.  I want to talk and talk for hours at a time, and to hear you talk, too.”

“Even to grumble?”

Claire grinned eloquently.

“Oh, well-if you must, but it would be rather mean, wouldn’t it, after a holiday, and when I’ve got everything so nice?  I am driven to praise myself, because you take no notice.”

“You have given me no time.  You chatter so that no one else can get in a word.”  Cecil took off hat and gloves, and threw them down on the sofa.  “I must say your looks don’t pity you.  You look as if you had been enjoying yourself all right.  That kettle’s boiling!  I’m dying for a cup of tea!  Let’s have it at once, and talk comfortably.”  She seated herself by the table, and helped herself to a buttered scone.  “What did you do on Christmas Day?”

“The Willoughbys asked me.  I went to church with them, and stayed until eleven.”

“Anything going on, or just the ordinary family frumps?”

Claire laughed.

“Nobody but relations and my fascinating self; but you needn’t be so blighting.  I enjoyed every moment, and they were angelically kind.  Janet was like an old friend.”

“Did she give you a present?”

“Yes, she did.  Half a dozen pairs of gloves.”

“The wrong size, of course!  They always are!”

“No, my pessimist, they were not!  She had diagnosed me as a six and a half, and six and a half I am, so all was peace and joy.  I put on a new pair the next day when I went out for a constitutional.  It was quite a tonic.  Gloves are much cheaper abroad, and I never wore a shabby pair in my life until this winter.  It’s been one of the things I’ve hated most.”

“Six pairs will soon go,” said Cecil; “I prefer to have things that last.  Oh, by the way, you addressed a parcel.  How did it come?  Was it left at the door?”

Instinctively Claire busied herself over the tea-tray.  She had a feeling that Cecil would rather be unobserved; she was also afraid that her own expression might betray too much.

“Oh no, he called.  When I came in after morning church on Sunday, Lizzie said that a gentleman was waiting.  It was Major Carew.  He asked me if I would address the parcel and send it on.”

Silence.  Claire bent over the tea-tray, but she knew without looking that Cecil’s face had fallen into the cold set lines which she had seen times and again, when things had gone wrong; she knew that when she spoke again the coldness would be in her voice, but her own conscience was clear.  She had done nothing to offend.

“Really!  That’s curious. Waiting, you say?  You didn’t ask him in?  What did he say?”

“He said, `Miss Gifford, I presume.  I have called to ask if you will be kind enough to address a small parcel for Miss Rhodes.’  I said, `Wouldn’t it be better if I gave you her address?’ He said, `I should prefer if you wrote it yourself.’  I said, `I will do so with pleasure.  Good morning.’  He said, `Good morning.’  He then took up his hat and departed.  He showed himself out, and shut the door after him.  I went upstairs and took off my things.”

“He didn’t stay long then?”

“About three minutes, I should say, perhaps four; I can’t tell you to a second, unfortunately.  I didn’t look at the clock.”

Cecil laughed, half apologetic, half relieved.

“Oh, well, you needn’t be sarcastic.  Naturally I wanted to know.  I couldn’t make it out when I saw your writing, for you had given me the scarf-I’m going to buy your present at the sales, by the way-but, of course, when I took off the paper, there was a message inside.  I was expecting that present.”

“I hope it was very nice?”

“Oh, yes-yes!  A brooch,” Cecil said carelessly.  Claire hoped it was not the insignificant little golden bar which she was wearing at the moment, but she had never seen it before, and Cecil’s jewellery was of the most limited description.  She determined to ask no more questions on the subject, since evidently none were desired.  Cecil helped herself to a second scone, and asked suddenly-

“Why didn’t he sit down?”

“It wasn’t necessary, was it?  He gave his message, and then there was nothing to say.  I wasn’t going to make conversation.”

“You didn’t like him!” cried Cecil, but she laughed as she spoke, and her face relaxed; it was evident that she was more pleased than disconcerted at her friend’s lack of approval.  “You’re no good at hiding your feelings, Claire; your voice gives you away as well as your face. Why didn’t you like Major Carew?  I suppose you don’t deny that he is a handsome man?”

“I don’t think I care about handsome men,” said Claire, seeing before her a clean-shaven face which could lay no claims to beauty, but in comparison with which the Major’s coarse good looks were abhorrent in her eyes.

“Prefer men plain, I suppose?  Well, I don’t; I shouldn’t like Frank half so much, if he didn’t look so big and imposing.  And other people admire him, too.  People stare at him as we pass.  I suppose you have guessed that it is with him that I’ve been going out?  There didn’t seem any need to speak of it before, but during the rest of the holidays you might expect me to go about with you, and sometimes-often, I hope, I’ll be engaged, so it’s just as well to explain.  We can do things together in the morning, but naturally-”

“Yes, of course; I quite understand.  Don’t worry about me, Cecil.  I’d love you to have a good time.  Are you-are you engaged to him, dear?”

There was in her voice that soft, almost awed note with which an unengaged girl regards a companion who has actually plighted her troth.  Cecil softened at the sound.

“Well-I suppose we are.  Between ourselves.  It’s not public yet, but I think it soon will be.  Half a dozen years ago I should have been sure, but I know better now.  You can never be sure!  Men are such brutes.  They think of nothing but themselves, and their own amusement.”

“Some men!”

“Most men!  Of course, every girl who falls in love thinks her own particular man is the exception, and believes in him blindly until she gets her heart broken for her pains.  I believed in a man, too, years ago, when I was not much older than you are now.”

She paused, as though waiting for comment, but Claire sat silent, listening with grave, tender eyes.

Cecil sent her a flickering smile.

“You are a nice child, Claire; you have some sense!  I’ll tell you, because you never pried or asked questions.  You would never have got anything out of me that way, but sometimes I feel as if it would be a relief to talk.  I was twenty-three, and very pretty; not as pretty as you are, perhaps, but very nearly, and he was twenty-eight, a lawyer- brother of one of the girls.  He came to one of the prize-givings, and we were introduced.  After that he made his people invite me once or twice, and he found out where I was going in the summer holidays, and came down to the same inn.  He stayed a fortnight.”  Cecil sighed, and stared dreamily at her cup.  “Even now, Claire, after all that has happened, I can never quite make up my mind to be sorry that he came.  It made things harder when the parting came, but I had had it.  For two whole weeks I had been as perfectly, blissfully happy as a human creature can be!  I had wakened every morning to feel that life was too good to be true, I had gone to bed every night grudging the time for sleep.  A fortnight is not very long, but it’s not every woman who gets even as much as that.  I shall never feel that happiness again, but I’m glad that I know what it is like.”

“But, Cecil dear, if-if Major Carew-”

Cecil shook her head.

“No!  Never again.  One may be happy enough, but it’s never the same.  I can’t feel now as I did then.  The power has gone.  I cared so much, you see; I would have given my life for him a dozen times over.  I thought of him night and day for over a year; I lived for the times when we could meet.  It wasn’t very often, for his people had taken fright, and would not ask me to the house.  They were rich people, and didn’t want him to marry a poor girl who was working for herself.  It’s a great mistake, Claire, to be friends with a man when his relations ignore you.  If I’d had any pride I would have realised that, but I hadn’t, and I didn’t care; I didn’t care for anything but just to see him, and do what he wished.  And then, my dear, after a year he began to change.  He didn’t write to me for weeks, and I had to go to school every day, and try to think of the work, and be patient with the girls, and seem bright and interested, as if I had nothing on my mind.  It was near Christmas-time, and we were rehearsing a play.  I used to feel as if I should go mad, staying behind after four o’clock to go over those wretched scenes, when I was panting to run home to see if a letter had come!  But each time that we met again I forgot everything; I was so happy that I had no time to grumble.  That surprises you, doesn’t it?  You can hardly believe that of me, but I was different then.  I was quite nice.  You would have liked me, if you had known me then!”

“Dear old Cecil!  I like you now.  You know I do!”

“Oh, you put up with me!  We get along well enough, but we are not friends.  If we had not been thrown together, you would never have singled me out.  Don’t apologise, my dear; there’s no need.  I’m a grumbling old thing, and you’ve been very patient.  Well, that’s how it happened.  I went out to meet him one night, and he told me quite calmly that he was going to be married.  She was the sweetest girl in the world, and he was the happiest of men.  Wanted me to know, because we had been such good friends, and he was sure I should be pleased!”

Claire drew her breath with a sharp, sibilant sound.

“And you?  Oh, Cecil!  What did you say?”

Mary Rhodes compressed her lips; the set look was in her face.

“I said what I thought!  Quite plainly, and simply, and very much to the point.  I suppose it would have been dignified to congratulate him, and pretend to be delighted; but I couldn’t do it.  He had broken my heart for his own amusement, and he knew it as well as I did, so why should I pretend?  Something inside me seemed to go snap at that moment, and I’ve been sour and bitter ever since; but I’ve learnt one lesson, and that is, that it is folly to go on waiting for perfection in this world.  Much better take what comes along, and make the best of it!”

Claire was silent, applauding the sentiment in the abstract, but shrinking from its application to the swarthy Major Carew.  She stretched her hand across the table, and laid it caressingly on Cecil’s arm.

“Pauvre!  Dear old girl!  It’s no use saying he wasn’t worth having- that’s no comfort.  When you have loved a man, it must be the worst blow of all to be obliged to despise him; but men are not all like that, Cecil; you mustn’t condemn them all because of one bad specimen.  I’ve a great admiration for men.  As a whole they are bigger than women-I mean mentally bigger-freer from mean little faults.  As a rule they have a stricter sense of honour.  That’s an old-fashioned attitude, I suppose, but I don’t care; it’s been my experience, and I can only speak what I know.  The average man is honourable, is faithful!”

“Ah, you are speaking of your experience as a leisured girl-a girl living at home with her mother behind her.  It’s a different story when you are on your own.  A man finds it pleasant enough to be friends with a bachelor girl, to take her about, give her little presents, and play the fairy prince generally.  The dear little soul is so grateful”- Cecil’s voice took a bitter note-“so appreciative of his condescension!  He can enjoy her society without being bothered with chaperons and conventions.  It is really an uncommonly jolly way of passing the time.  But, when it comes to marrying, does he want to marry the bachelor girl?”

Claire pushed her chair from the table, her face looked suddenly white and tired, there was a suspicious quiver in her voice.

“Oh, Cecil, don’t, don’t!  You are poisoning me again.  Leave me some faith!  If I can’t believe in my fellow-creatures, I’d rather die at once, and be done with it.  It stifles me to breathe the atmosphere of distrust and suspicion.  And it isn’t true.  There are good men, who would be all the more chivalrous because a girl was alone.  I know it!  I’m sure of it!  I refuse to believe that every man is a blackguard because you have had an unfortunate experience.”

Mary Rhodes stared, abashed.  Since the night when Claire had implored her not to poison her mind, she had never seen her merry, easy-going companion so aroused; but for the moment regret was swamped in curiosity.  Ostensibly Claire was arguing in the plural, but in reality she was defending a definite man; Cecil was sure of it; saw her suspicion confirmed in the paling cheeks and distended eyes; heard it confirmed in the shaking voice.  But who could the man be?  Claire was the most candid, the most open of colleagues; she loved to talk and describe any experiences which came her way; every time she returned from an afternoon in town she had a dozen amusing incidents to recount, which in themselves constituted a guide to her doings.  Cecil felt satisfied that Claire had had no masculine escort on any of these occasions, and with the one exception of Mrs Willoughby’s “At Home” she had paid no social visits.  Yet there did exist a man on whose honour she was prepared to pin her faith; of that Cecil was convinced.  Probably it was someone in Brussels whom she was still hoping to meet again!

“Well, don’t get excited,” she said coolly.  “If you choose to look upon life as a fairy tale, it’s not my business to wake you up.  The Sleeping Beauty position is very soothing while it lasts.  Don’t say I didn’t warn you, that’s all!  I don’t call it exactly `poisonous’ to try to prevent another girl from suffering as badly as one has suffered oneself.”

“Perhaps not-certainly not, but it was the way you did it.  Sorry, Cecil, if I was cross!  I hope this time, dear, all will go well, and that you’ll be very, very happy.  Do tell me anything you can.  I won’t ask questions, but I’d love to hear.”

Cecil’s laugh had rather a hard intonation.

“Oh, well! once bitten, twice shy.  I’m older this time, and it’s a different thing.  Perhaps I shall be all the happier because I don’t expect too much.  He’s very devoted, and he’ll be rich some day, but his father gives him no allowance, which makes things tight just now.  He is an erratic old man, almost a miser, but there are pots of money in the family.  Frank showed me the name in Landed Gentry; there’s quite a paragraph about them, and I’ve seen a picture of the house, too.  A beautiful place; and he’s the eldest son.  It’s in Surrey-quite near town.”

“He hasn’t taken you down to see it?”

“Not yet.  No.  It’s a private engagement.  His father doesn’t know.  He is waiting for a chance to tell him.”

“Wouldn’t the father be glad for his heir to marry?”

“He wouldn’t be glad for him to marry me!  But the estate is entailed, so Frank can do as he likes.  But the old man is ill, always having asthma and heart attacks, so it wouldn’t do to upset him, and of course till he knows, Frank can’t tell any other members of the family.”

Claire, standing by the fireplace, gave a vague assent, and was glad that her face was hidden from view.  For Cecil’s sake she intensely wanted to believe in Major Carew and his account of his own position, but instinctively she doubted, instinctively she feared.  She remembered the look of the man’s face as he had stood facing her across the little room, and her distrust deepened.  He did not look straight; he did not look true.  Probably the old father had a good reason for keeping him short of money.  If he were really in love with Cecil, and determined to marry her, that was so much to his credit; but Claire hated the idea of that secrecy, marvelled that Cecil could submit a second time to so humiliating a position.  Poor Cecil! how awful it would be if she were again deceived!  A protective impulse stirred in Claire’s heart.  “She shan’t be, if I can help it!” cried the inner voice.  At that moment she vowed herself to the service of Mary Rhodes.

“A big country house in Surrey!  That’s the ideal residence of the heroine of fiction.  It does sound romantic, Cecil!  I should love to think of you as the mistress of a house like that.  Come and sit by the fire, and let us talk.  It’s so exciting to talk of love affairs instead of exercises and exams...  Let’s pretend we are just two happy, ordinary girls, with no form-rooms looming ahead, and that one of us is just engaged, and telling the other `all about it.’  Now begin!  Begin at the beginning.  How did you meet him first?”

But there a difficulty arose, for Cecil grew suddenly red, and stumbled over her words.

“Oh-well-I- We met!  It was an accident-quite an accident-rather a romantic accident.  I was coming home one Sunday evening a year ago.  I had been to church in my best clothes, and when I was halfway here the skies opened, and the rain descended.  Such rain!  A deluge!  Dancing up from the pavement, streaming along the gutters.  I hadn’t an umbrella, of course-just my luck!-and I’d had my hat done up that very week.  I tore it off, and wrapped it in the tails of my coat, and just as that critical moment Frank passed, saw me doing it, and stopped.  Then he asked if I would allow him to shelter me home beneath his umbrella.  Well!  I’m not the girl to allow men to speak to me in the street, but at that moment, in that deluge, when he’d just seen me take off my hat, could a gentleman do less than offer to shelter me?  Would it have been sane to refuse?”

“No; I don’t think it would.  I should certainly have said yes, too.  That’s the sort of thing that would have been called chivalry in olden times.  It’s chivalry now.  He was quite right to offer.  It would have been horrible if he had passed by and left you to be drenched.”

Cecil brightened with relief.

“That’s what I thought!  So I said `Yes’; and, of course, while we walked we talked, and the wind blew my hair into loose ends, and the damp made them curl, and the excitement gave me a colour; and it was so nice to talk to a man again, Claire, after everlasting women!  I did look pretty when I saw myself in the glass when I came in, almost as I used to look years before.  And he looked handsome, too, big and strong, and so delightfully like a man, and unlike a member of staff!  We liked each other very much, and when we got to this door-”

Silence.  Mary Rhodes waited wistfully for a helping word.  Claire stared into the fire, her brows knitted in suspense.

“Well, naturally, we were sorry to part!  He asked if I usually went to Saint C –­ for the evening service.  I didn’t, but I said `Yes.’  I knew he meant to meet me again, and I wanted to be met.”

Claire sent her thoughts back and recalled a certain Sunday evening when she had offered to accompany Cecil to church, and had been bluntly informed that her company was not desired.  She had taken the hint, and had not offered it again.  She was silent, waiting for the revelations which were still to come.

“So after that it became a regular thing.  He met me outside the church door, and saw me home.  He often asked me to go out with him during the week, but I always refused, until suddenly this term I was so tired, so hungry for a change that I gave in, and promised that I would.  I suppose that shocks you into fits!”

“It does rather.  You see,” explained Claire laboriously, “I’ve been brought up on the Continent, where such a thing would be impossible.  It would be an insult to suggest it.  Even here in England it doesn’t seem right.  Do you think a really nice man who was attracted by a girl wouldn’t find some other way-get an introduction somehow?”

“How?  It’s easy to talk, but how is he to do it?  We live in different worlds.  I am a High School teacher, living in rooms in London, without a relation or a house open to me where I am intimate enough to take a friend.  He is an officer in a crack regiment, visiting at fashionable houses.  Can’t you imagine how his hostesses would stare if he asked them to call upon me here, in this poky room!  And if he loves me, if I interest him more than the butterflies of Society, if he wants to know me better, what is he to do?  Tell me that, my dear, before you blame me for taking a little bit of fun when I get the chance!”

But Claire had no suggestion to make.  She herself had been strong enough to refuse a friendship on similar lines, but she had been living a working life for a bare four months, while Cecil had been teaching for twelve years.  Twelve years of a second-hand life, living in other women’s houses, teaching other women’s children, obeying other women’s rules; with the one keen personal experience of a slighted love!

The tale of close on four thousand nights represented a dreary parlour and a pile of exercise books.  For twelve long years this woman had worked away, losing her youth, losing her bloom, cut off from all that nature intended her to enjoy; and then at the end behold a change in the monotony, the sudden appearance of a man who sought her, admired her, craved her society as a boon!

The tears came to Claire’s eyes as she put herself in such a woman’s place, and realised all that this happening would mean.  Renewal of youth, renewal of hope, renewal of interest and zest...

“I don’t know!  I don’t know!” she said brokenly.  “It’s all wrong, somehow.  You ought not to be forced into such a position, but I don’t blame you, Cecil.  It’s the other women who deserve the blame, the women who are better off, and could have opened their houses.  You have been so drearily dull all these long years that you would have been more than human to refuse.  But now, dear, now that you are engaged, surely he has some friends to whom he could introduce you?”

Mary Rhodes shook her head.

“Not till his people know.  It might come round to their ears, and that would make things more difficult still; but I am hoping it won’t be long.  Now, Claire, I’ve told you, because you are such a kind understanding little soul, and it’s a comfort to talk things out; but I’ll kill you if you dare to breathe a word to another soul-Sophie Blake, or Mrs Willoughby, or even your mother when you write to her.  You can never tell how these things are repeated, and Frank would never forgive me if it came out through me.  Promise faithfully that you’ll never mention his name in connection with me.”

“Of course I will.  What do you take me for?  I shouldn’t dream of doing such a thing!”

“Of course, at the Willoughbys’, for instance, if anyone did mention his name-they might, quite well, for I should think they were in much the same set-there would be no harm in saying that you’d heard of him.  I should rather like to hear what they said.”

Cecil’s face looked wistful as she spoke these last words, but the next moment her expression changed to one of pure amazement as the whirr of the cuckoo clock made itself heard, and the little brown bird hopped out of its niche, and sounded five clear notes.

“Gracious, what’s that?  Where did that come from?”

“It was a Christmas present to me from abroad.”

Claire added the last words in the fond hope that they would save further criticism, and Cecil rose from her seat, and stood in front of the hanging clock examining it with critical eyes.

“It’s a good one.  Most of them are so gimcrack.  From abroad?  One of your Belgian friends, I suppose?  Does it make that awful row every hour?  I can’t stand it here, you know, if it does.”

“Don’t trouble yourself.  I’ll take it upstairs.  I like the `awful row.’  I put it here because I thought it would be a pleasure to you as well as to myself.  I’m sorry.”

“What a tantrum!  Evidently the clock is a tender point.  Better leave it here and stop the gong.  It will keep you awake all night.”

“I won’t stop the gong!  I-I like to be waked!” declared Claire obstinately.  She lifted the clock from its nail, and stalked out of the room, head in air.

Cecil whistled softly between pursed lips.