The contrasts of life seemed painfully strong to Claire Gifford that Saturday afternoon as she seated herself in the luxurious car by Mrs Willoughby’s side, and thought of Sophie Blake obliged to borrow ten pounds to pay for a chance of health, and the contrast deepened during the next few hours, as she watched beautifully gowned women squandering money on useless trifles which decked the various “stalls.”  Embroidered cushions, painted sachets, veil cases, shaving cases, night-dress cases, bridge bags, fan bags, handkerchief bags, work bags; bags of every size, of every shape, of every conceivable material; bead necklaces, mats-a wilderness of mats-a very pyramid of drawn-thread work.  Claire found a seat near the principal stall, where she caught the remarks of the buyers as they turned away. “...I detest painted satin!  Can’t think why I bought that ridiculous sachet.  It will have to go on to the next bazaar.”

“...That makes my twenty-third bag!  Rather a sweet, though, isn’t he?  It will go with my grey dress.”

“This is awful!  I’m not getting on at all.  I can’t decently spend less than five pounds.  For goodness’ sake tell me what to buy!”

“Can’t think why people give bazaars!  Such an upset in the house.  For some charity, I believe-I forget what.  She asked me to come...”

So on and so on; scores of women surging to and fro, swinging bags of gold and silver chain, buying baubles for which they had no use; occasionally-very occasionally, for love of the cause; often-very often because Lady –­ had sent a personal invitation, and Lady –­ was a useful friend, and gave such charming balls!

At the two concerts Claire had a pleasant success, which she enjoyed with all her heart.  Her whistling performance seemed to act as a general introduction, for every listener seemed to be anxious to talk to her, and to ask an infinitude of questions.  Was it difficult?  How long did it take to learn?  Was she nervous?  Wasn’t it difficult not to laugh?  How did she manage not to look a fright?  Did she do it often?  Did she mind?  This last question usually led up to a tentative mention of some entertainment in which the speaker was interested, but after the first refusal Claire was on guard, and regretted that her time was filled up.  She was eager to help Mrs Willoughby, but had no desire to be turned into an unpaid public performer!

Janet did not appear at the bazaar, so the drive home was once more a tete-a-tete, during which Mrs Willoughby questioned Claire as to the coming holidays, and expressed pleasure to hear that they were to be spent in Brussels.  She was so kind and motherly in her manner that Claire was emboldened to bespeak her interest on Sophie’s behalf.

“I suppose,” she said tentatively, “you don’t know of any family going abroad to a dry climate-it must be a very dry climate-who would like to take a girl with them to-er-to be a sort of help!  She’s a pretty girl, and very gay and amusing, and she’s had the highest possible training in health exercises.  She would be splendid if there was a delicate child who needed physical development, and, of course, she is quite well educated all round.  She could teach up to a certain point.  She is the Gym. mistress in my school, and is very popular with the girls.”

“And why does she want to leave?”

“She’s not well.  It’s rheumatism-a bad kind of rheumatism.  It is just beginning, and the doctor says it ought to be tackled at once, and that to live on clay soil is the worst thing for her.  If she stays at Saint Cuthbert’s she’s practically bound to live on clay.  And he says she ought to get out of England for the next few winters.  She has not a penny beyond her salary, but if she could find a post-”

“Well, why not?” Mrs Willoughby’s voice was full of a cheerful optimism.  “I don’t know of anything at present, but I’ll make inquiries among my friends.  There ought not to be any difficulty.  So many people winter abroad; and there is quite a craze for these physical exercises.  Oh, yes, my dear, I am sure I can help.  Poor thing! poor girl! it’s so important to keep her health.  I must find some one who will be considerate, and not work her too hard.”

She spoke as if the post were a settled thing; as if there were several posts from which to choose.  Probably there were.  Among her large circle of wealthy friends this popular and influential woman, given a little trouble, could almost certainly find a chance for Sophie Blake. Given a little trouble!  That was the rub!  Five out of six of the women who had thronged Lady –­’s rooms that afternoon would have dismissed Sophie’s case with an easy sympathy, “Poor creature!  Quite too sad, but really, you know, my dear, it’s a shocking mistake to recommend any one to a friend.  If anything goes wrong, you get blamed yourself.  Isn’t there a Home?” Mrs Willoughby was the exception to the rule; she helped in deed, as well as in word.  Claire looked at the large plain face with a very passion of admiration.

“Oh, I wish all women were like you!  I’m so glad you are rich.  I hope you will go on growing richer and richer.  You are the right person to have money, because you help, you want to help, you remember other women who are poor.”

“My dear,” said Mrs Willoughby softly, “I have been poor myself.  My father lost his money, and for years we had a hard struggle.  Then I married-for love, my dear, not money, but there was money, too,-more money than I could spend.  It was an intoxicating experience, and I found it difficult not to be carried away.  My dear husband had settled a large income on me, for my own use, so I determined, as a safeguard, to divide it in two, and use half for myself and half for gentlewomen like your friend, who need a helping hand.  I have done that now for twenty-five years, but I give out of my abundance, my dear; it is easy for me to give money; I deserve no credit for that.”

“You give time, too, and sympathy, and kindness.  It’s no use, Mrs Willoughby.  I’ve put you on the topmost pinnacle in my mind, and nothing that you can say can pull you down.  I think you are the best woman in London!”

“Dear, dear, you will turn my head!  I’m not accustomed to such wholesale flattery,” cried Mrs Willoughby, laughing; then the car stopped, and Claire made her adieux, and sprang lightly to the ground.

The chauffeur had stopped before the wrong house, but he did not discover his mistake as Claire purposely stood still until he had turned the car and started to retrace his way westward.  The evening was fine though chill, and the air was refreshing after the crowded heat of Lady –­’s rooms.  Claire had only the length of a block to walk, and she went slowly, drawing deep breaths to fill her tired lungs.

The afternoon had passed pleasantly enough, but it had left her feeling flat and depressed.  She questioned herself as to the cause of her depression.  Was she jealous of those other girls who lived lives of luxury and idleness?  Honestly she was not.  She was not in the position of a girl who had known nothing but poverty, and who therefore felt a girl’s natural longing for pretty rooms, pretty clothes, and a taste of gaiety and excitement.  Claire had known all these things, and could know them again; neither was she in the position of a working girl who has no one to help in the day of adversity, for a comfortable home was open to her at any moment.  No! she was not jealous:  she probed still deeper, and acknowledged that she was disappointed!  Last time that she had whistled in public-

Claire shook her head with an impatient toss.  This was feeble.  This was ridiculous.  A man whom she had met twice!  A man whose mother had refused an introduction.  A man whom Janet-

“I must get to work, and prepare my lesson for Monday.  Nothing like good work to drive away these sentimental follies!”

But Fate was not kind, for right before her eyes were a couple of lovers strolling onward, the man’s hand through the girl’s arm, his head bent low over hers.  Claire winced at the sight, but the next moment her interest quickened in a somewhat painful fashion, as the man straightened himself suddenly, and swung apart with a gesture of offence.  The lovers were quarrelling!  Now the width of the pavement was between them; they strode onward, ostentatiously detached.  Claire smiled to herself at the childishness of the display.  One moment embracing in the open street, the next flaunting their differences so boldly that every passer-by must realise the position!  Surely a grown man or woman ought to have more self-control.  Then suddenly the light of a lamp shone on the pair, and she recognised the familiar figures of Mary Rhodes and Major Carew.  He wore a long light overcoat.  Cecil had evidently slipped out of the house to meet him, for she was attired in her sports coat and knitted cap.  Poor Cecil!  The interview seemed to be ending in anything but a pleasant fashion.

Claire lingered behind until the couple had passed her own doorway, let herself in with her latch-key, and hastened to settle down to work.  When Cecil came in, she would not wish to be observed.  Claire carried her books to the bureau, so as to have her back to the fire, but before she had been five minutes writing, she heard the click of the lock, and Cecil herself came into the room.

“Halloa!  I saw the light go up.  I thought it must be you.”  She was silent for a couple of minutes, then spoke again in a sharp, summoning voice:  “Claire!”

“Yes?”

Claire turned round, to behold Cecil standing at the end of the dining-table, her bare hands clasping its rim.  She was so white that her lips looked of a startling redness; her eyes met Claire with a defiant hardness.

“I want you to lend me five pounds now!”

Claire’s anxiety was swallowed in a rising of irritation which brought an edge of coldness into her voice.

“Five pounds!  What for?  Cecil, I have never spoken of it, I have never worried you, but I’ve already paid-”

“I know!  I know!  I’ll pay you back.  But I must have this to-night, and I’ve nowhere else to go.  It’s important.  I would lend it to you, Claire, if it were in my power.”

“Cecil, I hate to refuse, but really-I need my money!  Just now I need it particularly.  I can’t afford to go on lending.  I’m dreadfully sorry, but-”

“Claire, please!  I implore you, just this one time!  I’ll pay you back...  There’s my insurance policy-I can raise something on that.  For pity’s sake, Claire, help me this time!”

Claire rose silently and went upstairs.  It was not in her to refuse such a request while a five-pound note lay in her desk upstairs.  She slipped the crackling paper into an envelope, and carried it down to the parlour.  Cecil took it without a word, and went back into the night.

When she had gone, Claire gathered her papers together in a neat little heap, ranged them in a corner of the bureau, and seated herself on a stiff-backed chair at the end of the table.  She looked as if she were mounted on a seat of justice, and the position suited her frame of mind.  She felt angry and ill-used.  Cecil had no right to borrow money from a fellow-worker!  The money in the bank was dwindling rapidly; the ten guineas for Sophie would make another big hole.  She did not grudge that-she was eager and ready to give it for so good a cause; but what was Cecil doing with these repeated loans?  To judge from appearances, she was rather poorer than richer during the last few months, while bills for her new clothes came in again and again, and received no settlement.  An obstinate look settled on Claire’s face.  She determined to have this thing out.

In ten minutes’ time Cecil was back again, still white, still defiant, meeting Claire’s glance with a shrug, seating herself at the opposite end of the table with an air of callous indifference to what should come next.

“Well?”

“Well?”

“You look as if you had something to say!”

“I have.  Cecil, what are you doing with all this money?”

“That’s my business, I suppose!”

“I don’t see it, when the money is mine!  I think I have the right to ask?”

“I’ve told you I’ll pay you back!”

“That’s not the question.  I want to know what you are doing now!  You are not paying your bills.”

“I’ll sell out some shares to-morrow, and-”

“You shall do no such thing.  I can wait, and I will wait, but I can’t go on lending; and if I did, it could do you no good.  Where does the money go?  It does you no good!”

“I am the best judge of that.”

“Cecil, are you lending money to that man?”

The words leapt out, as on occasion such words will leap, without thought or premeditation on the speaker’s part.  She did not intend to speak them; if she had given herself one moment for reflection she dared not have spoken them; when their sound struck across the quiet room she was almost as much startled as Cecil herself; yet heart and brain approved their utterance; heart and brain pronounced that she had discovered the truth.

Cecil’s face was a deep glowing red.

“Really, Claire, you go too far!  Why in the world should you think-”

“I saw you with him now in the street.  I could see that you were quarrelling; you took no pains to hide it.  You left him to come in to me, and went back again.  It seems pretty obvious.”

“Well! and if I did?” Cecil had plainly decided that denial was useless.  “I am responsible for the loan.  What does it matter to you who uses it?”

But at that Claire’s anger vanished, and she shrank back with a cry of pain and shame.

“And he took it from you?  Money!  Took it from a girl he professes to love-who is working for herself!  Oh, Cecil, how could he?  How could you allow him?  How can you go on caring for such a man?”

“Don’t get hysterical, Claire, please.  There’s nothing so extraordinary in a man being hard up.  It’s happened before now in the history of the world.  Frank has a position to keep up, and his father-I’ve told you before how mean and difficult his father is, and it’s so important that Frank should keep on good terms just now.-He dare not worry him for money.  When he is going to make me a rich woman some day, why should I refuse to lend him a few trifling pounds when he runs short?  He’s in an expensive regiment; he belongs to an expensive Club; he is obliged to keep up with the other men.  If I had twice as much I would lend it with pleasure.”

Claire opened her lips to say that at least no more borrowed money should be supplied for Major Carew, but the words were never spoken.  Pity engulfed her, a passion of pity for the poor woman who a second time had fallen under the spell of an unscrupulous man.  Cecil’s explanation had fallen on deaf ears, for Claire could accept no excuses for a man who borrowed from a woman to ensure comfort and luxury for himself.  An officer in the King’s army!  The thing seemed incredible; so incredible that, for the first time, a rising of suspicion mingled with her dislike.  Mentally, she rehearsed the facts of Major Carew’s history as narrated by himself, and found herself doubting every one.  The beautiful house in the country-did it really exist?  The eccentric old father who refused to part with his gold-was he flesh and blood, or a fictitious figure invented as a convenient excuse?  The fortune which was to enrich the future-was there such a fortune?  Or, if there were, was Major Carew in truth the eldest son?  Claire felt a devastating helplessness her life abroad had left her ignorant of many British institutions; she knew nothing of the books in which she might have traced the Carew history; she had nothing to guide her but her own feminine instinct, but if that instinct were right, what was to become of Mary Rhodes?

Her face looked so sad, so downcast, that Cecil’s conscience was pricked.

“Poor old Claire!” she said gently, “how I do worry you, to be sure!  Never mind, my dear, I’ll make it up to you one day.  You’ve been a brick to me, and I shan’t forget it.  And I’ll go to my mother’s for the whole of the Easter holidays, and save up my pennies to pay you back.  The poor old soul felt defrauded because I stayed only a week at Christmas, so she’ll be thankful to have me.  You can go to Brussels with an easy mind, knowing that I’m out of temptation.  That will be killing two birds with one stone.  What do you say to having cocoa now, instead of waiting till nine o’clock?  We’ve tired ourselves out with all this fuss?”