The next afternoon a party of friends had been bidden for tennis.  For the morning no plans had been made, but throughout its length Mrs Fanshawe fought a gallant fight against overwhelming odds, and was hopelessly beaten for her pains.  It was her strong determination that her son should be prevented from holding another tete-a-tete with Claire Gifford.  Erskine actively, and Claire passively, desired and intended to bring about just that very consummation, while Major Humphreys, shrewdly aware of the purpose for which he had been invited, aided and abetted their efforts by the development of a veritable frenzy of gardening enthusiasm.  He questioned, he disputed, he meekly acknowledged his mistakes; he propounded schemes for fresh developments, the scenes of which lay invariably at the opposite end of the grounds from that in which the young people were ensconced.

Mrs Fanshawe struggled valiantly, but the Triple Entente won the day, and for a good two hours before lunch, Erskine and Claire remained happily lost to sight in the farthest recesses of the grounds.  They had left behind the region of formal seats and benches, and sat on the grass at the foot of a great chestnut, whose dark green foliage made a haven of shade in the midst of the noonday glare.  Claire wore her bargain frock, and felt thankful for the extravagant impulse of that January morn.  Erskine was in flannels, cool and becoming as a man’s néglige invariably is; both had discarded hats, and sat bareheaded in the blessed shade, and Erskine asked questions, dozens of questions, a very viva voce examination, the subject being the life, history, thoughts, hopes, ambitions, and dreams of the girl by his side.

“You were an only child.  So was I. Were you a lonely little kiddie?”

“No, I don’t think I was.  My mother was a child with me.  We were blissfully happy manufacturing a doll’s house out of a packing chest, and furnishing it with beds made out of cardboard boxes, and sofas made out of pin-cushions.  I used to feel other children a bore because they distracted her attention.”

“That would be when you were-how old?  Six or seven?  And you are now- what is it?  Twenty-two?  I must have been a schoolboy of seventeen at that time, imagining myself a man.  Ten years makes a lot of difference at that age.  It doesn’t count so much later on.  At least I should think not.  Do I appear to you very old?”

“Hoary!”

“No, but I say...  Honestly!”

“Don’t be conceited.  You know perfectly well-”

“But I wanted to make sure!  And then you went to school.  Did you have a bad time at first among the other girls?”

“No.  I’m afraid the other girls had a bad time with me.  I was very uppish and British, and insisted on getting my own way.  Did you have a bad time?”

“Yes, I did,” he said simply.  “Small boys have a pretty stiff time of it during their first term, and my time happened to be stiffer than most.  I may be as miserable again.  I hope I never may be!  But I’m pretty sure it’s impossible to be more miserable than I was at nine years old, bullied on every side, breaking my heart with home sickness, and too proud to show a sign.”

“Poor little lad!” sighed Claire softly, and for a long minute the two pairs of eyes met, and exchanged a message.  “But afterwards?  It grew better after that?”

“Oh, yes.  I learnt to stand up for myself, and moved up in the school, and began to bully on my own...  Did you make many real friends in your school days?”

“No real lasting friends.  They were French girls, you see, and there was the difference of race, and religion, to divide us as we grew up.  And we were birds of passage, mother and I; always moving about.”

“You felt the need of companionship?”

“No.  I had mother, and we were like girls together.”  The twin dimples showed in a mischievous smile.  “You seem very anxious to hear that I was lonely!”

“Well!” said Erskine, and hesitated as though he found it impossible to deny the accusation.  “I wanted to feel that you could sympathise with me!  I’ve been more or less lonely all my life, but I have always felt that a time would come when it would be all right-when I’d meet some one who’d understand.  I was great chums with my father, but he died when I was twelve, and my school chum went off to China, and comes home for a few months every three years, when it has usually happened that I’ve been abroad.  There are nice enough fellows in the regiment, but I suppose I’m not quick at making friends-”

Strive as she would Claire could not resist a twinkle of amusement, their eyes met, and both went off into a peal of laughter.

“Oh, well, there are exceptions!  That’s different.  I felt that I knew you at once, without any preliminary stages.  It must always be like that when people really fit.”  And then after a short pause he added in boyish, ingenuous tones, “Did you feel that you knew me?”

“I-I think I did!” Claire acknowledged.  To both it seemed the most wonderful, the most absorbing of conversations.  They were blissfully unconscious that it was old as the hills themselves, and had been repeated with ceaseless reiteration from prehistoric periods.  Only once was there an interruption of the deep mutual happiness and that came without warning.  Claire was smiling in blissful contentment, unconscious of a care, when suddenly a knife-like pain stabbed her heart.  Imagination had wafted her back to Staff-Room.  She saw the faces of the fifteen women seated around the table, women who were with but one exception past their youth, approaching nearer and nearer to dreaded age, and an inward voice whispered that to each in her turn had come this golden hour, the hour of dreams, of sweet, illuminative hope.  The hour had come, and the hour had passed, leaving behind nothing but a memory and a regret.  Why should she herself be more blessed than others?  She looked forward and saw a vision of herself ten years hence still hurrying along the well-known street looking up at the clock in the church tower to assure herself that she was in time, still mounting the same bare staircase, still hanging up her hat on the same peg.  The prose of it in contradistinction with the poetry of the present was terrifying to Claire’s youthful mind, and her look was so white, so strained, that Erskine took instant alarm.

“What is it?  What is it?  Are you ill?  Have I said anything to upset you?  I say, what is the matter!”

“Nothing.  Nothing!  I had a-thought!  Talk hard, please, and make me forget!”

The end of the two hours found the cross-questioning still in full force; the man and the girl alike still feeling that the half was not yet told.  They resented the quick passage of time, resented the disturbance of the afternoon hours.

“What on earth do we want with a tennis party?” grumbled the Captain.  “Wish to goodness we could be left alone.  I suppose the mater wanted them to amuse you before I came back.”

Claire murmured incoherently.  She knew better, but she was not going to say so!  They turned unwillingly towards the house.

In the afternoon the guests arrived.  They came early, for the Fanshawe tennis courts were in fine condition, and the prospect of meeting a new man and a new girl, plus the son of the house, was a treat in itself in the quiet countryside where the members of the same set met regularly at every function of the year.  One of the courts was reserved for men’s fours, for Mrs Fanshawe believed in giving her guests what they liked, and there is no doubt that men as a rule are ungallant enough to prefer their own sex in outdoor games.

In the second court the younger girls took part in mixed fours, while others sat about, or took part in lengthy croquet contests on the furthest of the three lawns.  Claire as a member of the house-party had a good deal of time on her hands, and helped Mrs Fanshawe with the entertainment of the older guests, who one and all eyed her with speculative interest.

One thin, faded woman had spent a few years in Bombay and was roused to interest by hearing that Claire’s mother was now settled in that city.  Yes! she had met a Mr Judge.  Robert Judge, was it not?  Her husband knew him quite well.  He had dined at their house.  Quite a dear man.  She had heard of his marriage, “but”-here came a look of mystification-“to a young wife; very pretty, very charming-”

Claire laughed, and held out a little coloured photograph in a round glass frame which hung by a chain round her neck.

“That is my mother.  She is thirty-nine, and looks thirty.  And she is prettier than that.”

The faded lady looked, and sighed.  Mrs Fanshawe brightened into vivid interest.  “You know Mr Judge, then?  You have met him?  That’s quite interesting.  That’s very interesting!” Claire realised with some irritability that the fact that one of her own acquaintances knew and approved, instantaneously raised Mr Judge in her hostess’s estimation.  Hitherto he had been a name, a nobody; now he became a real man, “quite a dear man,” a man one could know!  The result was satisfactory enough, but Claire was irritated by the means.  She was irritated also by the subtle but very real change in her hostess’s manner to herself in the last twenty-four hours; irritated because the precious hours were passing, and Erskine was surrounded by his guests, playing endless sets on the hot lawn.  He looked as though he were enjoying himself, too, and that added to her annoyance, for like many another girl she had not yet realised that a man can forget even his love in his whole-hearted enjoyment of sport!

At tea-time, however, there was a lull when Erskine carried a chair to Claire’s side, and seated himself with an air of contentment.  Once and again as the meal progressed she saw his eyes rove around, and then come back to dwell upon herself.  She knew that he was comparing her with the other girls who were present, knew also by the deep glow of that returning glance, that in his eyes she was fairest and best.  The former irritation dropped from her like a cloak.

Tea was over, the guests rose from their seats.  Erskine stood by Claire’s side looking down at her with a quizzical smile.

“Er-did you notice that man who came in just before tea, with the girl in the pink frock?  He was sitting over there, on the right?”

“Yes, I noticed him.  I could see him quite well.  Why?”

“What did you think of him?”

“Quite nice.  I liked his face.  Good-natured and interesting.”

Erskine laughed.

“Sure?”

“Quite sure.  Why?”

“Don’t recognise him at all?  Doesn’t remind you of any one you know?”

“Not in the least.  Why should he?”

Erskine laughed again.

“I’m afraid your memory is defective.  I must introduce you again!” He walked away, laid his hand on the arm of the new-comer, and led him back to Claire’s side.  “Miss Gifford,” he said gravely, “allow me to introduce-Major Carew!”