With Sophie in hospital, pathetically anxious for visits, with the rent of the Laburnum Road lodgings to pay whether one lived in them or not, Claire nerved herself to spend August in town, with the prospect of a September holiday to cheer her spirits.  Through one of the other mistresses she had heard of an ideal farmhouse near the sea where the kindly housewife “mothered” her guests with affectionate care, where food was abundant, and cream appeared upon the table at every meal- thick, yellow, country cream in which a spoon would stand upright.  There was also a hammock swung between two apple-trees in the orchard, a balcony outside the bedroom window, and a shabby pony-cart, with a pony who could really go.  What could one wish for more?

Claire planned a lazy month, lying in that hammock, reading stories about other people, and dreaming still more thrilling romances about herself; driving the pony along country lanes, going out on to the balcony in the early morning to breathe the scent of honeysuckle, and sweetbriar, and lemon thyme, and all the dear, old-world treasures to be found in the gardens of well-conducted farmhouses.  She had a craving for flowers in these hot summer days; not the meagre sixpennyworth which adorned the saffron parlour, but a wealth of blossom, bought without consideration of cost.  And one day, with the unexpectedness of a fairy gift, her wish was fulfilled.

It lay on the table when she returned from school-a long cardboard box bearing the name of a celebrated West End florist, the word “fragile” marked on the lid, and inside were roses, magnificent, half-opened roses with the dew still on their leaves, the fat green stalks nearly a yard in length-dozens of roses of every colour and shade, from the lustrous whiteness of Frau Carl to the purple blackness of Prince Camille.  Claire gathered them in her arms, unconscious of the charming picture which she made, in her simple blue lawn dress, with her glowing face rising over the riot of colour, gathered them in a great handful, and ran swiftly upstairs.

There was no card inside the box, no message of any kind, but her heart knew no doubt as to the sender, and she dare not face the fire of Mary Rhodes’ cross-examination.  In the days of daffodils she had treated herself to a high green column of a vase, which was an ideal receptacle for the present treasures.  When it was filled there were still nearly half the number waiting for a home, so these were plunged deep into the ewer until the morrow, when they would be taken to Sophie in hospital.  The little room was filled with beauty and fragrance, and Claire knew moments of unclouded happiness as she looked around.

Presently she extracted two roses from the rest, ran downstairs to collect box, paper and string, and handed rubbish and roses together to Lizzie at the top of the kitchen stairs.  Lizzie received her share of the treasures with dignity, cut off the giant stems, which she considered straggly and out of place, and crammed the two heads into a brown cream-jug, the which she deposited on a sunny window-ledge.  Claire saw them as she next left the house and shrugged resignedly, for she was beginning to learn the lesson which many of us take a lifetime to master, the wisdom of allowing people to enjoy themselves in their own fashion!

The Willoughbys were leaving town in mid July, en route for Switzerland, and later on for a Scottish shooting-box.  Claire received an invitation to tea on their last Saturday afternoon, and arrived to find the drawing-room full of visitors.

Malcolm Heward was assisting Janet at the tea-table, but with this exception she recognised no one in the room, and was thankful for the attentions of Master Reginald, who hailed her as an old acquaintance, and reproached her loudly for not turning up at “Lord’s.”

“I looked out for you, you know!” he said impressively, and Claire was the more gratified by his remembrance because Malcolm Heward had required a second introduction to awaken his recollection.  It is no doubt gratifying to the object of his devotion when a man remains blind to every other member of her sex, but the other members may feel a natural objection to be so ignored!  Claire was annoyed by the necessity of that second introduction, and as a consequence made herself so fascinating to the boy who had remembered, that he hugged the sweet delusion that she considered him a man, and was seriously smitten by his charms.  He waited upon her with assiduity, gave her exclusive tips as to her choice of cakes, and recited the latest funny stories which were already stale in his own circles, but which came to her ears with agreeable freshness.

It was while the two were laughing together over an unexpected denouement that the departure of two guests left a space across which Claire could see a far corner of the room, and perceived that a lady seated on a sofa had raised a tortoiseshell-bound lorgnon, to stare across at herself.  She was an elderly lady, and at first sight her appearance awoke no recollection.  She was just a grey-haired woman, attired in handsome black, in no way differentiated from one or two other visitors of the same age:  even when the lorgnon dropped to her side, disclosing a pair of very bright, very quizzical grey eyes, it was a full moment before Claire realised that this was her acquaintance of that first eventful journey to London, none other than Mrs Fanshawe herself.  There she sat, smiling, complacent, grande dame as ever, nodding with an air of mingled friendliness and patronage, laying one hand on the vacant place by her side, with an action which was obviously significant.  Claire chose, however, to ignore the invitation, and after a grave bow of acknowledgment, turned back to Reginald, keeping her eyes resolutely averted from that far corner.  It was Mrs Fanshawe herself who was finally compelled to cross the room to make her greetings.

“Miss Gifford!  Surely it is Miss Gifford?  Mrs Willoughby told me she expected you this afternoon.  And how are you, my dear, after this long time?”

The tone was all that was cordial and friendly.

Claire stood up, tall and stately, and extended a perfectly gloved hand.  It was not in human nature to be perfectly natural at that moment.  Sub-consciously she was aware that, as the Americans would express it, she was “putting on frills”; sub-consciously she was amused at the artificiality of her own voice.

“Quite well, thank you.  Exceedingly flourishing!”

“You look it,” Mrs Fanshawe said, and seated herself ruthlessly in Reginald’s chair.  “Tell me all about it!  You were going to work, weren’t you?  Some new-fangled idea of being independent.  So ridiculous for a pretty girl!  And you’ve had-how long-nearly a year?  Haven’t got tired of it yet, by any chance?”

“Oh, yes; quite often I feel very tired, but I should have felt the same about pleasuring, and work is more worth while.  It has been very interesting.  I have learnt a great deal.”

“More than the pupils-hey?” chuckled Mrs Fanshawe shrewdly.  “Don’t try to pretend that you are a model school-mistress.  I know better!  I knew you were not the type when I saw you on that journey, and after a year’s trial you are less the type than ever.”  She screwed up her eyes and looked Claire over with deliberate criticism up and down, down and up.  “No, my dear!  Nature did not intend you to be shut up in a girls’ school!” Suddenly she swerved to another topic.  “What a journey that was!  I nearly expired.  If it hadn’t been for you, I should never have survived.  I told my son you had saved my life.  That was my son who met me on the platform!”

Was it fancy that an expression of watchfulness had come into the gay eyes?  Claire imagined that she recognised such an expression, but, being prepared for some such reference, had herself well in command.  Not a nicker of embarrassment passed over her face as she said quietly-

“Yes, I knew it was your son.  I met Captain Fanshawe here one evening last winter, so I have been introduced.”

Mrs Fanshawe waved her lorgnon, and murmured some vague words which might, or might not, have been intended as an apology.

“Oh, yes.  So nice!  Naturally, that morning I was worn-out.  I did not know what I was doing.  I crawled into bed.  Erskine told me about meeting you, and of your pretty performance.  Quite a professional siffleuse!  More amusing than school teaching, I should say. And more profitable.  You ought to think of it as a profession.  Erskine was quite pleased.  He comes here a great deal.  Of course-”

Mrs Fanshawe’s smile deepened in meaning fashion, then suddenly she sighed.  “Very delightful for them, of course; but I see nothing of him.  We mothers of modern children have a lonely time.  I used to wish for a daughter, but perhaps, if I’d had one, she would have developed a fancy to fly off to India!”

That was a hit at Claire, but she received it in silence, being a little touched by the unaffected note of wistfulness in the other’s voice as she regretted her lonely estate.  It was hard to be a widow, and to see so little of an only child, especially if that only child happened to be so altogether charming and attractive!

Mrs Fanshawe glanced across at the tea-table where Janet and her cavalier were still busy ministering to the needs of fresh arrivals.

“I asked Janet Willoughby to take pity on me for a few weeks this summer, but she’s too full up with her own plans.  Says so, at least; but I dare say it would have been different if- Well, well!  I have been young myself, and I dare say I shouldn’t have been too keen to accept an invitation to stay in the country with only an old woman as companion.  Enjoy yourself while you are young, my dear.  It gets more and more difficult with every year you live.”

Claire made a protesting grimace.

“Does it?  That’s discouraging.  I’ve always flattered myself that it would grow easier.  When one is young, everything is vague and unsettled, and naturally one feels anxious about what is to happen next.  It is almost impossible to be philosophical about the unknown, but when your life has shaped itself, it ought to be easy to settle down and make the best of it, and cultivate an easy mind.”

Mrs Fanshawe laughed.

“Well reasoned, my dear, well reasoned!  Most logical and sound.  And just as futile in practice as logical things usually are!  You wouldn’t believe me if I told you that it is the very uncertainty which makes the charm of youth, or that being certain is the bane of old age, but it’s the truth, all the same, and when you are sixty you will have discovered it for yourself.  Well! so my letter to Mrs Willoughby was of some use after all?  She did send you a card!”

Claire looked across the room to where Mrs Willoughby sat.  Hero-worship is an instinct in hearts which are still fired with youth’s enthusiasm, and this stout, middle-aged woman was Claire’s heroine par excellence.  She was kind, and to be kind is in good truth the fulfilment of Christ’s law.  Among Claire’s favourite books was Professor Drummond’s “The Greatest Thing in the World,” with its wonderful exposition of the thirteenth chapter of 1st Corinthians.  When she read its pages, her thoughts flew instinctively to this rich woman of society, who was not puffed up, thought no evil, was not easily provoked, suffered long, and was kind.

The girl’s eyes were eloquent with love and admiration as they rested on the plain, elderly face, and the woman who was watching felt a stab of envy at the sight.  The old crave for the love of the young, and cherish it, when found, as one of their dearest possessions, and despite the natural gaiety of her disposition there were moments when Mrs Fanshawe felt the burden of loneliness press heavily upon her.

“She has done much more than send me a card!” Claire said deeply.  “She has been a friend.  She has taken away the terrible feeling of loneliness.  If I were in trouble, or needed any help, I know that she would give it!”

“Oh, yes, yes, naturally she would.  So would any one, my dear, who had the chance.  But she’s a good creature, of course; a dear creature.  I’m devoted to her, and to Janet.  Janet and I are the best of friends!”

Again the meaning look, the meaning tone, and again in Claire’s heart the same sweet sense of certainty mingled with a tender compassion for Janet, who was less fortunate than herself.  It was a help to look across at the tea-table, and to realise that consolation was waiting for Janet if she chose to take it.

Suddenly Mrs Fanshawe switched off on to yet another topic.

“And where are you going to spend your summer holidays, my dear?”

“In September I am probably going to a farmhouse near the sea.”

“And in August?”

“In town, I think.  I have an invalid friend-”

Mrs Fanshawe swept aside the suggestion with an imperious hand.

“Nonsense!  Utter nonsense! Nobody stays in town in August, my good child.  The thing’s impossible.  I’ve passed through once or twice, en route for country visits, and it’s an unknown place.  The wierdest people walking up and down!  Where they come from I can’t conceive; but you never saw anything more impossible.  And the shops!  I knew a poor girl who became engaged at the end of July, and had to get her trousseau at once, as they sailed in September.  She was in despair. Nothing to be had.  She was positively in tears.”

“I shall get engaged in June,” Claire said firmly, “and take advantage of the summer sales.  I call it most thoughtless of him to have waited till the end of July.”

But Mrs Fanshawe was not attending; her eyes had brightened with a sudden thought; she was saying to herself, “Why not?  I should be alone.  There would be no danger of complications, and the child would be a delightful companion, good to look at, plenty to say for herself, and a mind of her own.  Quite useful in entertaining, too.  I could play off some of my duty debts, and she could whistle to us after dinner.  Quite a novelty in the country.  It would be quite a draw...  A capital idea!  I’ll say a week, and if it works she can stay on-”

“No, my dear, you cannot possibly endure town in August, at least not the entire month.  Run down to me for a break.  Quite a short journey; an hour and a half from Waterloo, and the air is delightfully fresh.  I shall be alone, so I can’t offer you any excitement, but if you are fond of motoring-”

The blood rushed into Claire’s face.  She was so intensely, overpoweringly surprised, that, for the moment, all other feelings were in abeyance.  The last thing in the world which she had expected was that Erskine’s mother should invite her to visit her home.

“I don’t know if you care for gardening.  I’m mad about it myself.  My garden is a child to me.  I stand no interference.  The gardeners are paid to obey me, and carry out my instructions.  If they get upsetting, off they go.  You’d like my garden.  It is not cut out to a regulation pattern; it has a personality of its own.  I have all my meals on the verandah in summer.  We could get you some tennis, too.  You wouldn’t be buried alive.  Well?  What do you say?  Is it worth while?”

“It’s exceedingly kind.  It’s awfully good of you.  I-I am so completely taken by surprise that I hardly know-I shall have to think.”

“Nonsense, my dear; what is there to think about?  You have no other engagement, and you need a change.  Incidentally also I want a companion.  You would be doing me a good turn as well as yourself.  I’m sure your mother would wish it!”

No doubt about that!  Claire smiled to herself as she realised how Mrs Judge would rejoice over the visit; turning one swallow into a summer, and in imagination beholding her daughter plunged into a very vortex of gaiety.  She was still smiling, still considering, when Janet came strolling across the room, and laid her hand affectionately on Mrs Fanshawe’s shoulder.

“I haven’t had a word with you all afternoon!  Such a rush of people.  You had tea comfortably, I hope:  and you, too-Claire!” There was just a suspicion of hesitation before the Christian name.

“I have just been asking Miss Gifford to take pity on my loneliness for part of August.  She is not knee-deep in engagements, as you are, my dear, and that precious son of mine; so we are going to amuse each other, and see how much entertainment we can squeeze out of the countryside!”

“But I haven’t-I didn’t-I’m not sure,” stammered Claire, acutely conscious of the hardening of Janet’s face, but once again Mrs Fanshawe waved aside her objections.

“But I am sure!  It’s all settled, my dear-all but the day.  Put your address on this silly little tablet, and I’ll write as soon as I’ve looked over my dates.  Now, Janet, I’m ready for a chat.  Take me out to the balcony, away from this crowd.”

“And I must go, I think.  I’ll say good-bye.”  Claire held out her hand to the daughter of the house.  “I hope you may have a delightful summer.”

“Oh, thanks so much.  Oh, yes, yes, I’m quite sure I will,” Janet answered mechanically.  She touched Claire’s hand with her fingers, and turned hastily aside.