Only a few hours before her son’s unexpected arrival, Mrs Fanshawe had warmly pressed Claire to extend her visit to a fortnight at least, and Claire had happily agreed.  Mrs Fanshawe recalled the incident as she poured out tea, and rated herself for her imprudence, but the deed was done; there was the girl, looking pretty enough to turn any young man’s head, and there, alas! was Erskine, who should, by all the laws of what was right and proper, be even now making love to Janet Willoughby in Scotland!  Janet was rich, Janet was well born, Janet was amiable and easily led, for years past Mrs Fanshawe had set her heart on Janet as a daughter-in-law, and she was not easily turned from her purpose.  Throughout that first afternoon her thoughts were busily engaged planning ahead, striving to arrange the days to the hindrance of dangerous tete-a-têtes, Erskine appeared to have returned in ignorance of Miss Gifford’s presence.  Mrs Fanshawe had been careful to avoid all reference to the girl in her letters, and was unable to think how the information could have leaked out, nevertheless the choice of Major Humphreys as a companion filled her with suspicion.  Never before had such an invitation been given on Erskine’s initiative; on more than one occasion, indeed, he had confessed that he found the Major a bore, and had expressed surprise at his mother’s liking for so dull a man.

Mrs Fanshawe had never found the Major dull, since he shared with enthusiasm her own passion for gardening, and was a most valuable adviser and assistant.  Together they had planned the flagged path winding low between the high banks of the rock garden, together they had planted the feathery white arenaria calearica in the crevices of the steps leading upward to the pergola, together they had planned the effect of clusters of forget-me-not, and red tulips among the long grasses in the orchard.  There was never any dearth of conversation between Major Humphreys and Mrs Fanshawe, and a stroll round the rose garden might easily prolong itself into a discussion lasting a couple of hours.  Hence came the suspicion, or Erskine knew as much, and had deliberately invited this man before any one of his own friends.  Despite all appearance to the contrary, Mrs Fanshawe felt convinced that “the bore” had been brought down to engage her own attention, and so leave her son free to follow his own devices.  She set her lips, and determined on a counter move.

A partie carree was dangerous under the circumstances; safety lay in a crowd.  That evening when Mrs Fanshawe retired to dress for dinner, the telephone in her boudoir was used to ring up all the big houses in the neighbourhood, invitations were given galore for tennis, for dinner, for lunch; and return invitations were accepted without consultation with her son.  At the end of half an hour she hung up the receiver, satisfied that Erskine’s opportunities for tete-a-têtes would be few.  Perhaps also time would suggest some excuse for shortening the girl’s visit to the ten days originally planned.  She must think it out, put her wits to work.  Claire was a pretty creature and a delightful companion, but a nobody, and poor into the bargain.  She could not be allowed to upset a cherished plan!

During dinner Mrs Fanshawe alluded casually to the coming gaieties, and mentally paid a tribute of admiration to the aplomb with which Claire listened, and smiled, betraying not a flicker of surprise at the sudden change of programme.  The good lady was so pleased with the result of her own scheming, that when later on the Major proposed a game of patience, she accepted at once, and viewed with equanimity the sight of the two young people strolling down the garden path.  It would be the last night when such an escape would be possible!

It was an exquisite moonlight night, clear enough to show the colour of the flowers in the beds and borders.  Claire’s white dress took on a ghostly hue against the deep background of the trees, her cheeks were pale, too, and the long line of eyelash showed dark against her cheeks.  She felt very happy, very content, just the least little bit in the world, afraid!  Captain Fanshawe was smoking a cigarette, and in the intervals drawing deep sighs of enjoyment.

“There’s only one thing that worries me-why didn’t I come back last week?  To think of rain, and mist, and smoky fires, and then-This!  I feel like a man who has been transported into fairyland!”

Claire felt as if she also was in fairyland, but she did not say so.  There are things that a girl does not say.  They paced up and down the winding paths, and came to the flight of steps leading to the pergola, “The Flowery Way” as Mrs Fanshawe loved to call it, where the arenaria calearica shone starry white in the moonlight.  Erskine stopped short, and said urgently-

“Would you mind walking on alone for a few yards?  I’ll stand here ... while you go up the steps.  Please!”

Claire stared in surprise, but there seemed no reason to deny so simple a request.

“And what am I to do when I get there?”

“Just stand still for a moment, and then walk on...  I’ll come after!”

Claire laughed, shrugged, and went slowly forward along the flagged path, up the flower-sprinkled stair, to pause beneath an arch of pink roses and look back with an inquiring smile.  Erskine was standing where she had left him, but he did not smile in response, while one might have counted twenty, he remained motionless, his look grave and intent, then he came quickly forward, leapt up the shallow steps and stood by her side.

“Thank you!” he said tersely, but that was all.  Neither then or later came any explanation of the strange request.

For a few moments there was silence, then Erskine harked back to his former subject.

“Scottish scenery is very fine, but for restful loveliness, Surrey is hard to beat.  You haven’t told me yet how you like our little place, Miss Gifford!  It’s on a very modest scale, but I’m fond of it.  There’s a homey feeling about it that one misses in bigger places, and the mater is a genius at gardening, and gets the maximum of effect out of the space.  Are you fond of a garden?”

“I’ve never had one!” Claire said, and sighed at the thought.  “That’s one of the Joys that does not go with a roving life!  I’ve never been able to have as many flowers as I wanted, or to choose the right foliage to go with them, or to pick them with the dew on their leaves.”  She paused, smitten with a sudden recollection.  “One day this year, a close, smouldering oven-ey day, I came in from school and found-a box full of roses!  There were dewdrops on the leaves, or what looked like dewdrops.  They were as fresh as if they had been gathered an hour before.  Dozens of roses, with great long stems.  They made my room into a bower.”

“Really!  Did they?  How very jolly,” was Erskine’s comment.

His voice sounded cool and unperturbed, and Claire did not venture to look at his face.  She thought with a pang, that perhaps after all she had been mistaken.  Perhaps Mrs Willoughby had been the real donor ... perhaps he had never thought...  She hurried on terrified lest her thoughts might be suspected.

“Mrs Fanshawe has been so kind, allowing me to send boxes of fruit and flowers to a friend in hospital.  One of our mistresses, who is being treated for rheumatism.”

“Poor creature!” said the Captain with careless sympathy.  “Dull work being in hospital in this weather.  How have you been getting on with my mother, Miss Gifford?  I’m awfully glad to find you down here, though I should have enjoyed showing you round myself.  I’m a bit jealous of the mater there!  She’s a delightful companion, isn’t she?  So keen and alert.  I don’t know any woman of her age who is so young in spirit.  It’s a great gift, but-” he paused, drew another cigarette from his case, and stared at it reflectively, “it has its drawbacks!”

“Yes.  I can understand that.  It must be hard to feel young, to be young in heart and mind, and to be handicapped by a body that persists in growing old.  I’ve often thought how trying it must be.”

“I suppose so.  Yes.  I’m afraid I wasn’t thinking about it in that light.  I was not discussing the position from my mother’s point of view, but from-her son’s!  It would be easier sometimes to deal with a placid old lady who was content with her knitting, and cherished an old-fashioned belief in the superiority of man!  Well! let us say the equality.  But the mater won’t even grant that.  By virtue of her superior years she is under the impression that she can still manage my affairs better than I can myself, which, of course, is a profound delusion!”

Looking at the firmly cut profile it seemed ridiculous to think of any one managing this man if it were not his will to be managed.  Mother and son were alike in possessing an obstinate self-will.  A conflict between them would be no light thing.  Woman-like, Claire’s sympathies leant to the woman’s side.

“It must be very difficult for a mother to realise that her son is really past her control.  And when she does, it must be a painful feeling.  It isn’t painful for the son; it’s only annoying.  The mother fares worst!”

Captain Fanshawe laughed, and looked down at the girl’s face with admiring eyes.

“What a faculty you have of seeing the other side!  Do you always take the part of the person who isn’t here?  If so, all the better for me this last week, when the mater has been spinning stories of my obstinacy, and pig-headedness, and general contradictiveness.  I thought I had better hurry home at once, before you learnt to put me down as a hopeless bad lot!”

Claire stood still, staring with widened eyes.

“Hurry home-hurry home before-” She stopped short, furious with herself for having taken any notice of the slip, and Erskine gave a short embarrassed laugh, and cried hastily-

“Oh, I knew; of course I knew!  The rain was only an excuse.  The real reason was that as soon as I knew you were staying here, I hadn’t patience to stay on.  I stood it for exactly three hours, thinking of you in this garden, imagining walking about as we are walking now, and then-I bolted for the afternoon train!”

Claire felt her cheeks flame, and affected dignity to hide her deep, uncontrollable joy.

“If I had been your hostess-”

“But you weren’t, you see...  You weren’t!  For goodness’ sake don’t put yourself in her place next.  Be Claire Gifford for once, and say you are glad to see me!” His eyes met hers and twinkled with humour as he added solemnly.  “There’s not a single solitary convention that could possibly be broken by being civil to a man in his own home!  Even your ultra sensitive conscience-”

“Never mind my sensitive conscience.  What I want to know is, how did you know?  Who told you that I was here?”

It was significant that the possibility that Mrs Fanshawe had written of her guest never occurred to Claire’s mind; that Erskine like herself discounted such a possibility.  He replied with a matter-of-fact simplicity which left Claire marvelling at the obtuseness of mankind-

“Janet, of course.  Janet Willoughby.  We were staying in the same house.  We were talking of you yesterday morning, and comparing notes generally.  She said you were-oh! quite a number of agreeable things- and I agreed with her, with just one exception.  She considered that you were responsive.  I said I had never found any one less so.  She said you were always so ready to meet her halfway.  I complained that you refused to meet me at all.  I ... er ... told her how I felt about it, and she said my chance was waiting if I choose to take it-that you were staying here keeping the mater company.  So-”

Claire said nothing.  She was thinking deeply.  For how many days had Janet been staying in the same house with Erskine?  Perhaps a week, certainly several days, yet it had been only yesterday morning that she had given the news.  Yesterday morning; and in three hours he had flown!  How was Janet faring now, while Claire was walking in fairyland?

“You are not angry?  Why do you look so serious?  Tell me you are not sorry that I came?” said a deep voice close to her ear, but before she had time to answer, footsteps approached, and Mrs Fanshawe’s voice was heard calling in raised accents-

“Erskine! are you there?  Give me your arm, dear; I am so tired.  It’s such a perfect night, that it seemed a shame to stay indoors.  The Major has been admiring `The Flowery Way.’  It certainly looks its best to-night.”  She turned towards Major Humphreys with her light, cynical laugh.  “My son declares that it is profanation to allow ordinary, commonplace mortals to walk up those steps!  He always escorts my visitors round by another way.  He is ungallant enough to say that he has never yet seen a girl whom he would care to watch walk up those steps in the moonlight.  She would have to be quite ideal in every respect to fit into the picture.  We’ll go round by the lily garden, Erskine, and then I think Miss Gifford and I will be off to bed.  You men will enjoy a smoke.”

For the next ten minutes Mrs Fanshawe kept tight hold of her son’s arm, and Claire talked assiduously to Major Humphreys.  She knew now why Erskine had asked her to walk ahead up “The Flowery Way!”