Claire dreaded Mary Rhodes’ curiosity on the subject of her proposed visit, but in effect there was none forthcoming.  Cecil was too much engrossed in her own affairs to feel anything but a passing interest.

“Some one you met at the Willoughbys’?  Only the old lady?  Rather you than me!  Nice house though, I suppose; gardens, motors, that kind of thing.  Dull, but luxurious.  Perhaps you’ll stay on permanently as her companion.”

“That,” Claire said emphatically, “will never happen!  I was thinking of clothes...  I am quite well-off for evenings, and I can manage for afternoons, but I do think I ought to indulge in one or two `drastic bargains’ for morning wear.  I saw some particularly drastic specimens in Knightsbridge this week.  Cecil ... could you-I hate asking, but could you pay me back?”

Cecil’s stare of amazement was almost comical under the circumstances.

“My-good-girl!  I was really pondering whether I dare, I’m horribly hard up, and that’s the truth.  I’ve had calls...”

“Not Major Carew again?  I can’t understand it, Cecil.  You know I inquired about him, you told me to ask if I had a chance, and his father is rich.  He might fly into a rage if he were asked for money, but he would give it in the end.  Major Carew might have a bad half-hour, but what is that compared with borrowing from you!  And from a man’s point of view it’s so little, such very small sums!” She caught a change of expression on the other’s face, and leapt at its meaning.  “Cecil!  You have been giving more!  Your savings!”

“And if I have, Claire Gifford, what business is it of yours?  What was I saving for?  To provide for my old age, wasn’t it? and now that the need has gone, why shouldn’t I lend it, if I chose?  Frank happens to be hard up for a few months, and besides, there’s a reason! ...  We are getting tired of waiting...  You must never, never breathe a word to a soul, but he wants me ... he thinks it might be better...”

Claire stared with wide eyes, Cecil frowned, and finished the sentence in reckless tones-

“We shall probably get married this autumn, and tell his father afterwards.”

“Oh, Cecil, no!  Don’t do it!  It’s madness.  It’s folly.  He ought not to ask you.  It will make things fifty times more difficult.”

“It would make things sure!” Mary Rhodes said.

The words were such an unconscious revelation of her inner attitude towards her lover, that Claire was smitten with a very passion of pity.  She stretched out her hand, and cried ardently.  “Cecil, I am thinking of your happiness:  I long for you to be sure, but a private marriage is an insult to a girl.  It puts her into a wrong position, and no man has the right to suggest it.  Where is your pride?”

“Oh, my dear,” interrupted Cecil wearily, “I’m past worrying about pride.  I’m thirty-three, and look older, and feel sixty at the least.  I’m tired out in body and soul.  I’m sick of this empty life.  I want a home.  I want rest.  I want some one to care for me, and take an interest in what I do.  Frank isn’t perfect, I don’t pretend that he is.  I wish to goodness he would own up, and face the racket once for all, but it’s no use, he won’t!  Between ourselves I believe he thinks the old man won’t live much longer, and there will be no need to worry him at all.  Any way there it is, he won’t tell at present, however much I may beg, but he will marry me; he wants to be married in September, and that proves that he does care!  He is looking out for a flat, and picking up furniture. We are picking up furniture,” Cecil corrected herself hastily.  “I go in and ask the prices, and he sends his servants the next week to do the bargaining.  And there will be my clothes, too...  I’ll pay you back in time, Claire, with ten per cent, interest into the bargain, and perhaps when I’m a rich woman the time may come when you will be glad to borrow from me!”

The prospect was not cheering, but the intention was good, and as such had to be suitably acknowledged.  Claire adjourned upstairs to consult her cheque-book, and decided bravely that the drastic bargains could not be afforded.  Then, being a very human, and feminine young woman she told herself that there could be no harm in going to look at the dresses once more, just to convince herself that they were not so very drastic after all, and lo! close inspection proved them even more drastic than she had believed, and by the evening’s delivery a choice specimen was speeding by motor van to Laburnum Road.

On visiting days Claire went regularly to visit Sophie, who, by her own account, was being treated to seventeen different cures at the same time, and was too busy being rubbed, and boiled, and electrified, and dosed, and put to bed in the middle of the afternoon, and awakened in the middle of the night, to have any time to feel bored.  She took a keen interest also in her fellow patients, and was the confidante of many tragic stories which made her own lot seem light in comparison.  Altogether she was more cheerful and hopeful than for months back, but the nurses looked dubious, and could not be induced to speak of her recovery with any certitude.

On the tenth of August, Claire packed her boxes with the aid of a very mountain of tissue paper, and set forth on her journey.  The train deposited her at Hazlemere station, outside which Mrs Fanshawe was waiting in a big cream car, smiling her gay, quizzical smile.  She was one of the fortunate women who possess the happy knack of making a guest feel comfortable, and at home, and her welcome sent Claire’s spirits racing upwards.

Many times during the last fortnight had she debated the wisdom of visiting Erskine Fanshawe’s home, but the temptation was so strong that at every conflict prudence went to the wall.  It was not in girl nature to resist the longing to see his home and renew her acquaintance with his mother; and as it had been repeatedly stated that he himself was to spend most of August in Scotland, she was absolved from any ulterior design.  Janet Willoughby had obviously looked upon the visit with disfavour, but Claire was too level-headed to be willing to victimise herself for such a prejudice.  Janet would have a fair field in Scotland.  She could not hold the whole kingdom as a preserve!

“You are looking charming, my dear,” Mrs Fanshawe said.  “I always say it is one of the tests of a lady to know how to dress for a journey.  A little pale, perhaps, but we shall soon change that.  This high air is better than any tonic.  I laze about during the heat of the day, and have a two hours’ spin after tea; I never appear until eleven, and I rest in my own room between lunch and tea, so you won’t have too much of my society, but I’ve a big box of new books from Mudie’s for you to read, and there’s a pony-cart at your disposal, so I dare say you can amuse yourself.  I love companionship, but I couldn’t talk to the cleverest woman in Europe for twelve hours at a stretch.”

“Nor I!” agreed Claire, who to tell the truth was more elated at the prospect of so much time to herself than she felt it discreet to betray.  She was enchanted with her first view of the beautiful Surrey landscape, and each turn of the road as they sped uphill seemed to open out more lovely vistas.  They drove past spinneys of pine trees, past picturesque villages, consisting of an old inn, a few scattered cottages, a pond and a green, along high roads below which the great plain of thickly-treed country lay simmering in a misty haze.  Then presently the road took a sudden air of cultivation, and Claire staring curiously discovered that the broad margin of grass below the hedge on either side, was mown and rolled to a lawn-like smoothness, the edges also being clipped in as accurate a line as within the most carefully tended garden.  For several hundred yards the margin stretched ahead, smooth as the softest velvet, a sight so rare and refreshing to the eye that Claire could not restrain her delight.

“But how charming!  How unexpected!  I never saw a lane so swept and garnished.  It has a wonderful effect, those two long lines of sward.  It is sward! grass is too common a word.  But what an amount of work!  Twenty maids with twenty mops sweeping for half a year.-I think the whole neighbourhood ought to be grateful to the owner of this land.”

Mrs Fanshawe beamed, complacently.

“I’m glad you think so. I am the owner!  This is my property, mine for my lifetime, and my son’s after me.  It’s one of my hobbies to keep the lane mown.  I like to be tidy, outside as well as in.  Erskine began by thinking it a ridiculous waste of work, but his friends are so enthusiastic about the result, that he is now complacently convinced that it was entirely his own idea.  That’s a man, my dear!  Illogical, self-satisfied, the best of ’em, and you’ll never change them till the end of time...  What’s your opinion of men?”

“I rather-like them!” replied Claire with a naïveté which kept her listener chuckling with amusement until the lodge gates were reached, and the car turned into the drive.

The house was less imposing than the grounds, just a large comfortable English country house, handsome and dignified, but not venerable in any way.  The hall was good, running the entire length of the house, and opening by tall double doors on to the grounds at the rear.  In summer these doors were kept open, and allowed a visitor a charming vista of rose pergolas and the blue-green foliage of an old cedar.  All the walls of the house from top to bottom were painted a creamy white, and there was noticeable a prevailing touch of red in Turkey carpets, cushion-covers, and rose-flecked chintzes.

Tea was served on a verandah, and after it was over Mrs Fanshawe escorted her visitor round the flower gardens, and finally upstairs to her own bedroom, where she was left with the announcement that dinner would be served at eight o’clock.  After dinner the ladies played patience, drank two glasses of hot-water, and retired to bed at ten o’clock.  It was not exciting, but on the other hand it was certainly not dull, for Mrs Fanshawe’s personality was so keen, so youthful in its appreciation, that it was impossible not to be infected, and share in her enjoyment.

The next week passed quickly and pleasantly.  The weather was good, allowing long drives over the lovely country, a tennis party at home, and another at a neighbouring house introduced a little variety into the programme, and best of all Mrs Fanshawe grew daily more friendly, even affectionate in manner.  She was a woman of little depth of character, whose main object in life was to amuse herself and avoid trouble, but she had humour and intelligence, and made an agreeable companion for a summer holiday.  As her intimacy with her guest increased she spoke continually of her son, referring to his marriage with Janet Willoughby with an air of complacent certitude.

“Of course he will marry Janet.  They’ve been attached for years, but the young men of to-day are so deliberate.  They are not in a hurry to give up their freedom.  Janet will be just the right wife for Erskine, good tempered and yielding.  He is a dear person, but obstinate.  When he once makes up his mind, nothing will move him.  It would never do for him to have a high-spirited wife.”

“I disapprove of pandering to men,” snapped Claire in her most High School manner, whereupon the conversation branched off to a discussion on Women’s Rights, which was just what she had intended and desired.

On the seventh afternoon of her visit, Claire was in her room writing a letter to Sophie when she heard a sudden tumult below, and felt her heart bound at the sound of a familiar voice.  The pen dropped from her hand, and she sat transfixed, her cheeks burning with excitement.  It could not be!  It was preposterous, impossible.  He was in Scotland.  Only that morning there had been a letter.-It was impossible, impossible, and then again came the sound of that voice, that laugh, and she was on her feet, running across the floor, opening the door, listening with straining ears.

A voice rose clear and distinct from the hall beneath, the deep, strong voice about which there could be no mistake.

“A perfect flood!  The last five days have been hopeless.  I was tired of being soaked to the skin, and having to change my clothes every two hours, so I cut it, picked up Humphreys in town, and came along home.  And how have you been getting on, mater?  You look uncommonly fit!”

“I’m quite well.  I am perfectly well.  You need not have come home on my account,” Mrs Fanshawe’s voice had a decided edge.  “I suppose this is just a flying visit.  You will be going on to pay another visit.  I have a friend with me-a Miss Gifford.  You met her at the Willoughbys’.”

“So I did!  Yes.  That’s all right.  I’m glad you had company.  I suppose I shall be moving on one of these days.  I say, mother, what about tea?”

Claire shut the door softly, and turned back into the room.  Erskine’s voice had sounded absolutely normal and unmoved:  judging by it no one could have imagined that Miss Gifford’s presence or absence afforded him the slightest interest, and yet, and yet, the mysterious inner voice was speaking again, declaring that it was not the wet weather which had driven him back ... that he had hurried home because he knew, he knew-

In ten minutes’ time tea would be served.  Claire did not change her dress or make any alteration in her simple attire, her energies during those few minutes were chiefly devoted to cooling her flushed cheeks, and when the gong sounded she ran downstairs, letters in hand, and evinced a politely impersonal surprise at the sight of Captain Erskine and his friend.

Mrs Fanshawe’s eyes followed the girl’s movements with a keen scrutiny.  It seemed to her that Claire’s indifference was a trifle overdone:  Erskine also was unnaturally composed.  Under ordinary circumstances such a meeting would have called forth a frank, natural pleasure.  She set her lips, and determined to leave nothing to chance.