Janet Willoughby sent Claire a picture postcard, all white snow and strong shadow, and dazzling blue sky, and little black figures pirouetting on one leg with the other raised perilously in the rear.  “This is me!” was written across the most agile of the number, while a scrawling line across the top ran, “Happy New Year!  Returning on Tuesday.  Hope to see you soon.”  Tuesday was the day on which school re-opened; but Janet’s holiday was year long, not a short four weeks.

Cecil moaned loudly, but Claire was tired of aimless days, and welcomed the return to work.  She determined to throw her whole heart into her task, and work as no junior French mistress had ever worked before; she determined never to lose patience, never to grow cross, never to indulge in a sarcastic word, always to be a model of tact and forbearance.  She determined to wield such an ennobling influence over the girls in her form-room that they should take fire from her example, and go forth into the world perfect, high-souled women who should leaven the race.  She determined also to be the life and soul of the staff-room-the general peace-maker, confidante, and consoler, beloved by one and all.  She determined to seize tactfully upon every occasion of serving the Head, and acting as a buffer between her and disagreeables of every kind.  She arranged a touching scene wherein Miss Farnborough, retiring from work and being asked by the Committee to name a worthy successor, pronounced unhesitatingly, “Claire Gifford; she is but young, but her wisdom and diplomacy are beyond all praise.”  She saw herself Head of Saint Cuthbert’s, raised to the highest step of her scholastic ladder, but somehow the climax was not so exhilarating as the climb itself.  To be head mistress was, no doubt, a fine achievement, but it left her cold.

Inside Saint Cuthbert’s all was life and bustle.  Girls streaming along the corridors, in and out of every room; girls of all ages and sizes and shapes, but all to-day bearing an appearance of happiness and animation.  Bright-coloured blouses shone forth in their first splendour; hair-ribbons stood out stiff and straight; many of the girls carried bunches of flowers to present to the special mistress for whom they cherished the fashionable “G.P.” (grand passion) so characteristic of school life.

Flora had a bunch of early daffodils for Claire.  Another girl presented a pot of Roman hyacinths for the decoration of the form-room, a third a tiny bottle of scent; three separate donors supplied buttonholes of violets.  The atmosphere was full of kindness and affection.  Girls encountering each other would fall into each other’s arms with exclamations of ecstatic affection.  “Oh, you precious lamb!”

“My angel child!”

“You dear, old, darling duck!” Claire heard a squat, ugly girl with spectacles and a turned-up nose addressed as “a princely pet” by an ardent adorer of fourteen.  The mistresses came in for their own share of adulation-“Darling Miss Gifford, I do adore you!”

“Miss Gifford, darling, you are prettier than ever!”

“Oh, Miss Gifford, I was dying to see you!”

The morning flew past, and lunch-time brought the gathering of mistresses in staff-room.  Mademoiselle’s greetings were politely detached, Fräulein was kindly and discursive, Sophie’s smile was as bright as ever, but she did not look well.

“Oh, I’m all right!  It’s nothing.  Only this horrid old pain!” she said cheerfully.  Into her glass of water she dropped three tabloids of aspirin.  Every one had been away for a longer or shorter time, visiting relatives and friends; they compared experiences; some had enjoyed themselves, some had not; but they all agreed that they were refreshed by the change.

“And where have you been?” asked the drawing mistress of Claire, and exclaimed in surprise at hearing that she had remained in town.  “Dear me, I wish I had known!  I’ve been back a fortnight.  We might have done something together.  Weren’t you dull?” asked the drawing mistress, staring with curious eyes.

“Very!” answered poor Claire, and for a moment struggled with a horrible inclination to cry.

After lunch Miss Bates took her cup of coffee to Claire’s side, and made an obvious attempt to be pleasant.

“I feel quite remorseful to think of your holidays.  It’s astonishing how little we mistresses know of each other out of school hours.  The first school I was in-a much smaller one by the sea,-we were so friendly and jolly, just like sisters, but in the big towns every one seems detached.  It’s hard on the new-comers.  I don’t know what I should have done if I hadn’t a brother’s house to go to on Sundays and holiday afternoons.  Except through him, I haven’t made a single friend.  At the other place people used to ask us out, and we had quite a good time; but in town people are engrossed in their own affairs.  They haven’t time to go outside.”

“I wonder you ever left that school!  What made you want to change?”

“Oh, well!  London was a lure.  Most people want to come to London, and I had my brother.  Do tell me, another time, if you are not going away.  It worries me to think of you being alone.  How did you come to get this post, if you have no connections in town?”

“Miss Farnborough came to stay in Brussels, in the pension which my mother and I had made headquarters for some time.  She offered me the post.”

Miss Bates stared with distended eyes.  “How long had she known you?”

“About a fortnight, I think.  I don’t remember exactly.”

“And you had never seen her before?  She knew nothing about you?”

“She had never seen me before, but she did know something about me.  Professionally speaking, she knew all there was to know.”

“That accounts for it,” said Miss Bates enigmatically.  “I wondered- You are not a bit the usual type.”

“I hope that doesn’t mean that I can’t teach?”

Miss Bates laughed, and shrugged her thin shoulders.  “Oh, no.  I should say, personally, that you teach very well.  That play was extraordinarily good.  It absolutely sounded like French.  Can’t think how you knocked the accent into them!  English girls are so self-conscious; they are ashamed of letting themselves go.  Mademoiselle thinks that your classes are too like play; but it doesn’t matter what she thinks, so long as-” she paused a moment, lowered her voice, and added impressively, “Keep on the right side of Miss Farnborough.  You are all right so long as you are in her good books.  Better be careful.”

“What do you mean?” Claire stared, puzzled and discomposed, decidedly on the offensive; but Miss Bates refused a definite answer.

“Nothing!” she said tersely.  “Only-people who take sudden fancies, can take sudden dislikes, too.  Ask no more questions, but don’t say I didn’t warn you, that’s all!”

She lifted her coffee-cup, and strolled away, leaving Claire to reflect impatiently, “More poison!  It’s too bad.  They won’t let one be happy!”

Before the end of the week school work settled into its old routine, and the days passed by with little to mark their progress.  The English climate was at its worst, and three times out of four the journey to school was accomplished in rain or sleet.  The motor-’buses were crammed with passengers, and manifested an unpleasant tendency to skid; pale-faced strap-holders crowded the carriages of the Tube; for days together the sky remained a leaden grey.  It takes a Mark Tapley himself to keep smiling under such conditions.  As Claire recalled the days when she and her mother had sat luxuriously under the trees in the gardens of Riviera hotels, listening to exhilarating bands, and admiring the outline of the Esterels against the cloudless blue of the sky, the drab London streets assumed a dreariness which was almost insupportable.  Also, though she would not acknowledge it to herself, she was achingly disappointed, because something which she had sub-consciously been expecting did not come to pass.  She had expected something to happen, but nothing happened; all through February the weeks dragged on, unrelieved by any episode except the weekly mail from India.

The little brown bird still industriously piped the hour; but his appearance no longer brought the same warm thrill of happiness.  And then one morning came a note from Janet Willoughby.

“Dear Miss Gifford,-

“I should really like to call you `Claire,’ but I must wait to be asked!  I have been meaning to write ever since we returned from Saint Moritz; but you know how it is in town, such a continual rush, that one can never get through half the things that ought to be done!  We should all like to see you again.  Mother has another `At Home’ on Thursday evening next, and would be glad to see you then, if you cared to come; but what I should like is to have you to myself!  On Saturday next I could call for you, as I did at Christmas, and keep you for the whole day.  Then we could talk as we couldn’t do at the `At Homes,’ which are really rather dull, duty occasions.

“Let me know which of these propositions suits you best.  Looking forward to seeing you,-

“Your friend, (if you will have me!)

“Janet Willoughby.”

Claire had opened the letter, aglow with expectation; she laid it down feeling dazed and blank.  For the moment only one fact stood out to the exclusion of every other, and that was that Janet did not wish her to be present at the “At Home.”  Mrs Willoughby had sent the invitation, but Janet had supplemented it by another, which could not be refused.  “I would rather have you to myself.”  How was it possible to refuse an invitation couched in such terms?  How could one answer with any show of civility, “I should prefer to come with the crowd?”

Claire carried the letter up to her cold bedroom, and sat down to do a little honest thinking.

“It’s very difficult to understand what one really wants!  We deceive ourselves as much as we do other people...  Why am I so hideously depressed?  I liked going to the `At Home,’ I liked dressing up, and driving through the streets, and seeing the flowers and the dresses, and having the good supper; but, if that were all, I believe I’d prefer the whole day with Janet.  I suppose, really, it’s Captain Fanshawe that’s at the bottom of it.  I want to meet him, I thought I should meet him, and now it’s over.  I shan’t be asked again when there’s a chance of his coming.  Janet doesn’t want me.  She’s not jealous, of course-that’s absurd-but she wants to keep him to herself, and she imagines somehow that I should interfere-”

Imagination pictured Janet staring with puzzled, uneasy eyes across the tables in the dining-room, of Janet drearily examining the piled-up presents in the boudoir, and then, like a flash of light, showed the picture of another face, now eager, animated, admiring, again grave and wistful.  “Is your address still the Grand Hotel?-My address is still the Carlton Club.”

“Ah, well, well!” acknowledged Claire to her heart, “we did like each other.  We did love being together, and he remembered me; he sent me the clock when he was away.  But it’s all over now.  That was our last chance, and it’s gone.  He’ll go to the At Home, and Mrs Willoughby will tell him I was asked, but preferred to come when they were alone, and he’ll think it was because I wanted to avoid him, and-and, oh, goodness, goodness, goodness! how miserable I shall feel sitting here all Thursday evening, imagining all that is going on!  Oh, mother, mother, your poor little girl is so lonesome!  Why did you go so far away?”

Claire put her head down on the dressing-table, and shed a few tears, a weakness bitterly regretted, for like all weaknesses the consequences wrought fresh trouble.  Now her eyelids were red, and she was obliged to hang shivering out of the window, until they had regained their natural colour, before she could face Cecil’s sharp eyes.

Janet arrived soon after eleven o’clock on Saturday morning, and was shown into the saffron parlour where Claire sat over her week’s mending.  She wore a spring suit purchased in Paris, and a hat which was probably smart, but very certainly was unbecoming, slanting as it did at a violent angle over her plump, good-humoured face, and almost entirely blinding one eye.  She caught sight of her own reflection in the overmantel and exclaimed, “What a fright I look!” as she seated herself by the table, and threw off her furs.  “Don’t hurry, please.  Let me stay and watch.  What are you doing?  Mending a blouse?  How clever of you to be able to use your fingers as well as your brains!  I never sew, except stupid fancy-work for bazaars.  So this is your room!  You told me about the walls.  Can you imagine any one in cold blood choosing such a paper?  But it looks cosy all the same.  I do like little rooms with everything carefully in reach.  They are ever so much nicer than big ones, aren’t they?”

“No.”

Janet pealed with laughter.

“That’s right, snub me!  I deserve to be snubbed.  Of course, I meant when you have big ones as well!  Who is the pretty girl in the carved frame?  Your mother!  Do you mean it, really?  What a ridiculous mamma!  I’m afraid, Claire, I’m afraid she is even prettier than you!”

“Oh, she is; I know it.  But I have more charm,” returned Claire demurely, whereat they laughed again-a peal of happy girlish laughter, which reached Lizzie’s ears as she polished the oilcloth in the hall, and roused an envious sigh.

“It’s well to be some folks!” thought poor Lizzie.  “Motor-cars, and fine dresses, and nothing to do of a Saturday morning but sit still and laugh.  I could laugh myself if I was in her shoes!”

Claire folded away her blouse, and took up a bundle of gloves.

“These are your gloves.  They have been such a comfort to me.  There’s a button missing somewhere.  Tell me all about your holiday!  Did you have a good time?  Was it as nice as you expected?”

“Yes.  No.  It was a good time, but-do you think anything ever quite comes up to one’s expectation?  I had looked forward to that month for the whole year, and had built so many fairy castles.  You have stayed in Switzerland?  You know how the scene changes when the sun sinks, how those beautiful alluring rose-coloured peaks become in a minute awesome and gloomy.  Well, it was rather like that with me.  I don’t mean that it was gloomy; that’s exaggerating, but it was prose, and I had pictured it poetry.  Heigho!  It’s a weary world.”

Claire’s glance was not entirely sympathetic.

“There are different kinds of prose.  You will forgive my saying that your especial sort is an Edition de luxe.”

“I know!  I know!  You can’t be harder on me than I am on myself.  My dear, I have a most sensible head.  I’m about as practical and long-headed as any woman of forty.  It’s my silly old heart which handicaps me.  It won’t fall into line...  Have you finished your mending?  May I come upstairs and see your room while you dress?”

For just the fraction of a moment Claire hesitated.  Janet saw the doubt, and attributed it to disinclination to exhibit a shabby room; but in reality Claire was proud of her attic, which a little ingenuity had made into a very charming abode.  Turkey red curtains draped the window, a low basket-chair was covered in the same material, a red silk eiderdown covered the little bed.  On the white walls were a profusion of photographs and prints, framed with a simple binding of leather around the glass.  The toilet table showed an array of well-polished silver, while a second table was arranged for writing, and held a number of pretty accessories.  A wide board had been placed over the narrow mantel, on which stood a few good pieces of china and antique silver.  There was nothing gimcrack to be seen, no one-and-elevenpenny ornaments, no imitations of any kind; despite its sloping roof and its whitewashed walls, it was self-evidently a lady’s room, and Janet’s admiration was unfeigned.

“My dear, it’s a lamb!  I love your touches of scarlet.  Dear me, you’ve quite a view!  I shall have sloping walls when I change my room.  They are ever so picturesque.  It’s a perfect duck, and everything looks so bright.  They do keep it well!”

“I keep it well!” Claire corrected.  “Lizzie `does’ it every morning, but it’s not a doing which satisfies me, so I put in a little manual labour every afternoon as a change from using my brain.  I do all the polishing.  You can’t expect lodging-house servants to clean silver and brass.”

“Can’t you?  No; I suppose you can’t.”  Janet’s voice of a sudden sounded flat and absent.  There was a moment’s pause, then she added tentatively, “You have a cuckoo clock?”

Claire was thankful that her face was screened from view as she was in the process of tying on her veil.  A muffled, “Yes,” was her only reply.

Janet stood in front of the clock, staring at it with curious eyes.

“It’s-it’s like-there were some just like this in a shop at Saint Moritz.”

“They are all much alike, don’t you think?”

“I suppose they are.  Yes-in a way.  Some are much better than others.  This is one of the best-”

“Yes, it is.  It keeps beautiful time.  I had it in the sitting-room, but Miss Rhodes objected to the noise.”

“Was it in Saint Moritz that you bought it?”

“I didn’t buy it.  It was a present.”

That finished the cross-questioning, since politeness forbade that Janet should go a step further and ask the name of the friend, which was what she was obviously longing to do.  She stood a moment longer, staring blankly at the clock, then gave a little sigh, and moved on to examine the ornaments on the mantelpiece.  Five minutes later the two girls descended the staircase, and drove away from the door.

The next few hours passed pleasantly enough, but Claire wondered if it were her own imagination which made her think that Janet’s manner was not quite so frank and bright as it had been before she had caught sight of the cuckoo clock.  She never again said, “Claire”; but her brown eyes studied Claire’s face with a wistful scrutiny, and from time to time a sharp little sigh punctuated her sentences.

“But what could I tell her?” Claire asked unhappily of her sub-conscience.  “I don’t know-I only think; and even if he did send it, it doesn’t necessarily affect his feelings towards her.  He was going to see her in a few days; and she is rich and has everything she wants, while I am poor and alone.  It was just kindness, nothing more.”  But though her head was satisfied with such reasoning, her heart, like Janet’s, refused to fall into line.

At tea-time several callers arrived, foremost among them a tall man whom Claire at once recognised as the original of a portrait which stood opposite to that of Captain Fanshawe on the mantelpiece of Janet’s boudoir.  This was “the kind man, the thoughtful man,” the man who remembered “little things,” and in truth he bore the mark of it in every line of his good-humoured face.  Apart from his expression, his appearance was ordinary enough; but he was self-evidently a man to trust, and Claire found something pathetic in the wistful admiration which shone in his eyes as they followed Janet Willoughby about the room.  To ordinary observers she was just a pleasant girl with no pretensions to beauty; to him she was obviously the most lovely of her sex.  He had no attention to spare for Claire or the other ladies present; he was absorbed in watching Janet, waiting for opportunities to serve Janet, listening eagerly to Janet’s words.  It is not often that an unengaged lover is so transparent in his devotion, but Malcolm Heward was supremely indifferent to the fact that he betrayed his feelings.

At ten o’clock Claire rose to take leave, and Mrs Willoughby made a request.

“I am going to ask you to do me a favour, dear.  A friend is having a Sale of Work at her house for a charity in which we are both interested, and she has asked me to help.  It is on a Saturday afternoon and evening, and I wondered if I might ask you to take part in the little concerts.  Whistling is always popular, and you do it so charmingly.  I would send the car for you, and take you home, of course, and be so very much indebted.  You don’t mind my asking?”

“No, indeed; I should be delighted.  Please let me help you whenever you can.”

In the bedroom upstairs Janet deliberately introduced Malcolm Heward’s name.

“That was the man I told you about at Christmas.  He was one of the party at Saint Moritz.  What did you think of him?”

“I liked him immensely.  He looks all that you said he was.  He has a fine face.”

“He wants to marry me.”

Claire laughed softly.

“That’s obvious!  I never saw a man give himself away so openly.”

“Do you think I ought to accept him?”

“Oh, how can I say?  It’s not for me to advise.  I hope, whoever you marry, you’ll be very, very happy!”

Suddenly Janet came forward and laid her hands on Claire’s arm.

“Oh, Claire, I do like you!  I do want to be friends, but sometimes I have the strangest thoughts.”  Before Claire had time to answer, she had drawn back again, and was saying with a little apologetic laugh, “I am silly!  Take no notice of what I say.  Here’s your fur; here’s your muff.  Are you quite sure you have all your possessions?”