The Independence of Claire

by Mrs. George de Horne Vaizey

  CHAPTER FOUR.

  A FELLOW TRAVELLER INTRODUCES HERSELF.

  The next afternoon Claire started on her journey to London. She hadspent the night with friends, and been seen off at the station by quitea crowd of well-wishers. Little souvenirs had been showered upon herall the morning, and everyone had a kindly word, and a hopeful prophecyof the future. There were invitations also, and promises to look her upin her London home, and a perfect shower of violets thrown into thecarriage as the train steamed out of the station, and Claire laughed andwaved her hand, and looked so complacent and beaming that no one lookingon could have guessed the real nature of her journey. She was notpretending to be cheerful, she _was_ cheerful, for, the dreaded partingonce over, her optimistic nature had asserted itself, and painted thelife ahead in its old rosy colours. Mother was happy and secured fromwant; she herself was about to enjoy a longed-for taste forindependence; then why grumble? asked Claire sensibly of herself, andanything less grumbling than her appearance at that moment it would behard to imagine.

  She was beautifully dressed, in the simplest but most becoming oftravelling costumes, she was agreeably conscious that the onlookers toher send-off had been unanimously admiring in their regard, and, as shestood arranging her bags on the rack overhead, she saw her own face inthe strip of mirror and whole-heartedly agreed in their verdict.

  "I'm glad I'm pretty! It's a comfort to be pretty. I should grow sotired of being with myself if I were plain!" she reflected complacentlyas she settled herself in her corner, and flicked a few grains of dustfrom the front of her skirt.

  She had taken a through first-class ticket from sheer force of habit,for Mrs Gifford had always travelled first, and the ways of economytake some time to acquire. In the opposite corner of the carriage satan elderly woman, obviously English, obviously also of the _grande dame_species, with aquiline features, white hair dressed pompadour fashion,and an expression compounded of indifference and quizzical good humour.The good humour was in the ascendant as she watched the kindly Belgianscrowd round her fellow-passenger, envelop her in their arms, murmurtearful farewells, and kiss her soundly on either cheek. The finelymarked eyebrows lifted themselves as if in commiseration for the victim,and as the door closed on the last farewell she heaved an involuntarysigh of relief. It was evident that the scene appealed to her entirelyfrom the one standpoint; she saw nothing touching about it, nothingpathetic; she was simply amused, and carelessly scornful ofeccentricities in manner or appearance.

  On the seat beside this imposing personage sat a young woman in black,bearing the hall mark of lady's maid written all over her in capitalletters. She sat stiffly in her seat, one gloved hand on her knee, theother clasped tightly round the handle of a crocodile dressing-bag.

  Claire felt a passing interest in the pair; reflected that if it wereher lot in life to be a maid, she would choose to live on the Continent,where an affectionate intimacy takes the place of this frigidseparation, and then, being young and self-engrossed, promptly forgotall about them, and fell to building castles in the air, in which sheherself lived in every circumstance of affluence and plenty, beloved andadmired of all. There was naturally a prince in the story, a veritablePrince Charming, who was all that the most exacting mind could desire,but the image was vague. Claire's heart had not yet been touched. Shewas still in ignorance as to what manner of man she desired.

  Engaged in these pleasant day-dreams Antwerp was reached before Clairerealised that half the distance was covered. On the quay the wind blewchill; on the boat itself it blew chillier still. Claire became awarethat she was in for a stormy crossing, but was little perturbed by thefact, since she knew herself to be an unusually good sailor. She tippedthe stewardess to fill a hot bottle, put on a cosy dressing-jacket, andlay down in her berth, quite ready for sleep after the fatigue andexcitement of the past week.

  In five minutes the ship and all that was in it was lost in dreams, and,so far as Claire was concerned, it might have been but another fiveminutes before the stewardess aroused her to announce the arrival atParkeston Pier. The first glance around proved, however, that the otherpassengers had found the time all too long. The signs of a bad crossingwere written large on the faces of her companions, and there was a traceof resentment in the manner in which they surveyed her active movements.An old lady in a bunk immediately opposite her own seemed especiallyinjured, and did not hesitate to put her feelings into words, "_You_have had a good enough night! I believe you slept right through... Areyou aware that the rest of us have been more ill than we've ever been inour lives?" she asked in accusing tones. And Claire laughed her happy,gurgling little laugh, and said--

  "I'm _so_ sorry, but it's all over, isn't it? And people always saythat they feel better afterwards!"

  The old lady grunted. She certainly looked thoroughly ill and wretchedat the moment, her face drawn and yellow beneath her scanty locks, andher whole appearance expressive of an extremity of fatigue. It seemedto her that it was years since she had left the quay at Antwerp, andhere was this young thing as blooming as though she had spent the nightin her own bed! She hitched a shawl more closely over her shoulders,and called aloud in a high imperious tone--

  "Mason! Mason! You must really rouse yourself and attend to me. Weshall have to land in a few minutes. Get up at once and bring me mythings!"

  The covering of another bunk stirred feebly, and two feet encased inblack merino stockings descended slowly to the floor. A moment later aghastly figure was tottering across the floor, lifting from a box abeautifully waved white wig, and dropping it carefully over the head ofthe aggrieved old lady of the straggly locks.

  It was all that Claire could do to keep from exclaiming aloud, as itburst upon her astonished senses that this poor, huddled creature wasnone other than the _grande dame_ of the railway carriage, the haughtilyindifferent, cynically amused personage who had seemed so supremelysuperior to the agitations of the common ruck! Strange what changes afew hours' conflict with the forces of Nature could bring about!

  Ill as the mistress was, the maid was even worse, and it was pitiful tosee the poor creature's efforts to obey the exigent demands of heremployer. In the end faintness overcame her, and if Claire had notrushed to the rescue, she would have fallen on the floor.

  "It's no use struggling against it! You must keep still until the boatstops. You'll feel better at once when we land, and you get into theair." Claire laid the poor soul in her bunk, and turned back to the oldlady who was momentarily growing younger and more formidable, as shecontinued the stages of her toilette.

  "Can I help you?" she asked smilingly, and the offer was accepted withgracious composure.

  "Please do. I should be grateful. Thank you. That hook fastens overhere, and the band crosses to this side. The brooch is in my bag--agold band with some diamonds--and the hat-pins, and a cleanhandkerchief. Can you manage? ... The clasp slides back."

  Claire opened the bag and gazed with admiration at a brown _moire_antique lining, and fittings of tortoiseshell, bearing raised monogramsin gold. "I shall have one exactly to match, when I marry my duke!" wasthe mental reflection, as she selected the articles mentioned and putthe final touches to the good lady's costume.

  Later on there was Mason to be dressed; later on still, Claire foundherself carrying the precious dressing-bag in one hand, and supportingone invalid with the other, while Mason tottered in the wake, unable forthe moment to support any other burden than that of her own body.

  Mrs Fanshawe--Claire had discovered the name on a printed card let intothe lining of the bag--had no sympathy to spare for poor Mason. Sheplainly considered it the height of bad manners for a maid to dare to besea-sick; but being unused to do anything for herself, gratefullyallowed Claire to lead the way, reply to the queries of custom-houseofficials, secure a corner of a first-class compartment of the waitingtrain, and bid an attendant bring a cup of tea before the ordinarybreakfast began.

  Mason refused any refreshment, but Mrs Fan
shawe momentarily regainedher vigour, and was all that was gracious in her acknowledgment ofClaire's help. The quizzical eyes roved over the girl's face andfigure, and evidently approved what they saw, and Claire, smiling back,was conscious of an answering attraction. Thoughtless and domineeringas was her behaviour to her inferior, there was yet something in the oldlady's personality which struck an answering chord in the girl's heart.She was enough of a physiognomist to divine the presence of humour andgenerosity, combined with a persistent cheerfulness of outlook. Thesigns of physical age were unmistakable, but the spirit within wasyoung, young as her own!

  The mutual scrutiny ended in a mutual laugh, which was the last breakingof the ice.

  "My dear," cried Mrs Fanshawe, "you must excuse my bad manners! Youare so refreshing to look at after all those horrors on the boat that Ican't help staring. And you've been so kind! Positively I don't knowhow I should have survived without you. Will you tell me your name? Ishould like to know to whom I am indebted for so much help."

  "My name is Claire Gifford."

  "Er--yes?" Plainly Mrs Fanshawe felt the information insufficient."Gifford! I knew some Giffords. Do you belong to the Worcestershirebranch?"

  Claire hitched her shoulders in the true French shrug.

  "_Sais pas_! I have no English relations nearer than second cousins,and we have lived abroad so much that we are practically strangers. Myfather died when I was a child. I went to school in Paris, and for thelast few years my mother and I have made our headquarters in Brussels.She married again, only yesterday, and is going to live in Bombay."

  Mrs Fanshawe arched surprised brows.

  "And you are staying behind?"

  "Yes. They asked me to go. Mr Judge is very kind. He is my--er--stepfather!" Claire shrugged again at the strangeness of that word."He gave me the warmest of invitations, but I refused. I preferred tobe left."

  Mrs Fanshawe hitched herself into her corner, planted her feet morefirmly on the provisionary footstool, and folded her hands on her knee.She had the air of a person settling down to the enjoyment of afavourite amusement, and indeed her curiosity was a quality well-knownto all her acquaintances.

  "Why?" she asked boldly, and such was the force of her personality thatClaire never dreamt for a moment of refusing to reply.

  "Because I want to be independent."

  Mrs Fanshawe rolled her eyes to the hat-rail.

  "My dear, nonsense! You're far too pretty. Leave that to the poorcreatures who have no chance of finding other people to work for them.You should change your mind, you know, you really should. India's quitean agreeable place to put in a few years. The English girl is a trifleoverdone, but with your complexion you would be bound to have a success.Think it over! Don't be in a hurry to let the chance slip!"

  "It _has_ slipped. They sail from Marseilles a week from to-day, andbesides I don't want to change. I like the prospect of independencebetter even than being admired."

  "Though you like that, too?"

  "Of course. Who doesn't? I'm hoping--with good luck--to be admired inEngland instead!"

  "Then you mustn't be independent!" Mrs Fanshawe said, laughing. "Itwas the rage a year or two ago; girls had a craze for joiningSettlements, and running about in the slums, but it's quite out of date.Hobble skirts killed it. It's impossible to be utilitarian in a hobbleskirt... And how do you propose to show your independence, may I ask?"

  "I am going to be French mistress in a High School," Claire saidsturdily, and hated herself because she winced before the eloquentchange of expression which passed over her companion's face.

  Mrs Fanshawe said, "Oh, really! How _very_ interesting!" and lookedabout as uninterested the while as a human creature could be. In thepause which followed it was obvious that she was readjusting the firstimpression of a young gentlewoman belonging to her own leisured class,and preparing herself to cross-question an entirely different person--anordinary teacher in a High School! There was a touch of patronage inher manner, but it was still quite agreeable Mrs Fanshawe was alwaysagreeable for choice: she found it the best policy, and her indolentnature shrank from disagreeables of every kind. This pretty girl hadmade herself quite useful, and a chat with her would enliven a dull hourin the train. Curiosity shifted its point, but remained actively inforce.

  "Tell me all about it!" she said suavely. "I know nothing aboutteachers. Shocking, isn't it? They alarm me too much. I have a horrorof clever women. You don't look at all clever. I mean that as acompliment--far too pretty and smart, but I suppose you are dreadfullylearned, all the same. What are you going to teach?"

  "French. I am almost as good as a Frenchwoman, for I've talked littleelse for sixteen years. Mother and I spoke English together, or Ishould have forgotten my own language. It seems, from a scholasticpoint of view, that it's a useful blend to possess--perfect French andan English temperament. `Mademoiselle' is not always a model ofpatience!"

  "And you think you will be? I prophesy differently. You'll throw thewhole thing up in six months, and fly off to mamma in India. Youhaven't the least idea what you are in for, but you'll find out, you'llfind out! Where is this precious school? In town, did you say? Shallyou live in the house or with friends?"

  "I have no friends in London except Miss Farnborough, the head mistress,but there are fifteen other mistresses besides myself. That will befifteen friends ready-made. I am going to share lodgings with one ofthem, and be a bachelor girl on my own account. I'm so excited aboutit. After living in countries where a girl can't go to the pillar-boxalone, it will be thrilling to be free to do just as I like. Pleasedon't pity me! I'm going to have great fun."

  Mrs Fanshawe hitched herself still further into her corner and smiled alazy, quizzical smile.

  "Oh, I don't pity you--not one bit! All young people nowadays thinkthey are so much wiser than their parents; it's a wholesome lesson tolearn their mistake. You're a silly, blind, ridiculous little girl, andif I'd been your mother, I should have insisted upon taking you with me,whether you liked it or not. I always wanted a daughter like you--sonsare so dull; but perhaps it's just as well that she never appeared. Shemight have wanted to be independent, too, in which case we should havequarrelled.--So those fifteen school-mistresses make up your wholesocial circle, do they? I wouldn't mind prophesying that you'll neverwant to speak a word to them out of school hours! I have a friendliving in town, quite a nice woman, with a daughter about your age.Shall I ask her to send you a card? It would be somewhere for you to goon free afternoons, and she entertains a good deal, and has a craze forthe feminist movement, and for girls who work for themselves. You mightcome in for some fun."

  Claire's flush of gratification made her look prettier than ever, andMrs Fanshawe felt an agreeable glow of self-satisfaction. Nothing sheliked better than to play the part of Lady Bountiful, especially whenany effort involved was shifted onto the shoulders of another, and inher careless fashion she was really anxious to do this nice girl a goodturn. She made a note of Claire's address in a dainty gold-edgedpocket-book, expressed pleasure in the belief that through her friendshe would hear reports of the girl's progress, and presently shut hereyes, and dozed peacefully for the rest of the ride.

  Round London a fine rain was falling, and the terminus looked bleak andcheerless as the train slowed down the long platform. Mason, stillhaggard, roused herself to step to the platform and look around as ifexpecting to see a familiar face, and in the midst of collecting her ownimpedimenta Claire was conscious that Mrs Fanshawe was distinctlyruffled, when the familiar figure failed to appear. Once more she foundherself coming to the rescue, marshalling the combined baggage to thescreened portion of the platform where the custom-house officials wentthrough the formalities incidental to the occasion, while the tiredpassengers stood shiveringly on guard, looking bleached and grey aftertheir night's journey. The bright-haired, bright-faced girl stood outin pleasant contrast to the rest, trim and smart and dainty as thoughsuch a thing as fat
igue did not exist. Mrs Fanshawe, looking at her,stopped short in the middle of a mental grumble, and turned it round, sothat it ended in being a thanksgiving instead.

  "Most neglectful of Erskine to fail me after promising he would come...Perhaps, after all, it's just as well he did not."

  And at that moment, with the usual contrariety of fate, Erskineappeared! He came striding along the platform, a big, loosely-builtman, with a clean-shaven face, glancing to right and left over theupstanding collar of a tweed coat. He looked at once plain anddistinguished, and in the quizzical eyes and beetling eyebrows there wasan unmistakable likeness to the _grande dame_ standing by Claire's side.Just for a moment he paused, as he came in sight of the group ofpassengers, and Claire, meeting his glance, knew who he was, even beforehe came forward and made his greeting.

  "Holla, Mater! Sorry to be late. Not my fault this time. I was readyall right, but the car did not come round. Had a good crossing?"

  "My dear, appalling! Don't talk of it. I was prostrate all night, andMason too ill to do anything but moan. She's been no use."

  "Poor beggar! She looks pretty green. But-- er--" The plain facelighted with an expectant smile as he turned towards the girl who stoodby his mother's side, still holding the precious bag. "You seem to havemet a friend..."

  "Oh--er--yes!" With a gesture of regal graciousness Mrs Fanshaweturned towards the girl, and held out her gloved hand. "Thank you _so_much, Miss Gifford! You've been quite too kind. I'm really horribly inyour debt. I hope you will find everything as you like, and have a verygood time. Thank you again. _Good-bye_. I'm really dropping withfatigue. What a relief it will be to get to bed!" She turned aside,and laid her hand on her son's arm. "Erskine, where _is_ the car?"

  Mother and son turned away, and made their way down the platform,leaving Claire with crimson cheeks and fast-beating heart. The littlescene which had just happened had been all too easy to understand. Thenice son had wished for an introduction to the nice girl who a momentbefore had seemed on such intimate terms with his mother: the mother hadbeen quite determined that such an introduction should not take place.Claire knew enough of the world to realise how different would have beenthe proceedings if she had announced herself as a member of the "idlerich," bound for a course of visits to well-known houses in the country."May I introduce my son, Miss Gifford? Miss Gifford has been an angelof goodness to me, Erskine. Positively I don't know what I should havedone without her! Do look after her now, and see her into a taxi. Sucha mercy to have a man to help!" That was what would have happened tothe Claire Gifford of a week before, but now for the first time Claireexperienced a taste of the disagreeables attendant on her changedcircumstances, and it was bitter to her mouth. All very well to remindherself that work was honourable, that anyone who looked down on her forchoosing to be independent was not worth a moment's thought, the factremained that for the first, the very first time in her life she hadbeen made to feel that there was a barrier between herself and a memberof her own class, and that, however willing Mrs Fanshawe might be tointroduce her to a casual friend, she was unwilling to make her known toher own son!

  Claire stood stiff and poker-like at her post, determined to make nomovement until Mrs Fanshawe and her attendants had taken theirdeparture. The storm of indignation and wounded pride which was surgingthrough her veins distracted her mind from her surroundings; she wasdimly conscious that one after another, her fellow-passengers had takentheir departure, preceded by a porter trundling a truck of luggage;conscious that where there had been a crowd, there was now a space,until eventually with a shock of surprise she discovered that she wasstanding alone, by her own little pile of boxes. At that she shookherself impatiently, beckoned to a porter and was about to walk ahead,when an uneasy suspicion made itself felt. The luggage! Something waswrong. The pile looked smaller than it had done ten minutes before.She made a rapid circuit, and made a horrible discovery. A box wasmissing! The dress-box containing the skirts of all her best frocks,spread at full length and carefully padded with tissue paper. It hadbeen there ten minutes ago; the custom-house officer had given it aspecial rap. She distinctly remembered noticing a new scratch on theleather. Where in the name of everything that was inexplicable could ithave disappeared? Appealed to for information the porter was notilluminating. "If it had been there before, why wasn't it there now?Was the lady _sure_ she had seen it? Might have been left behind atAntwerp or Parkeston. Better telegraph and see! If it had been therebefore, why wasn't it there now? Mistakes did happen. Boxes were muchalike. P'raps it was left in the van. If it was there ten minutesbefore, why wasn't it--"

  Claire stopped him with an imperious hand.

  "That's enough! It _was_ there: I saw it. I counted the pieces beforethe custom-house officer came along. I noticed it especially. Someonemust have taken it by mistake."

  The porter shook his head darkly.

  "On purpose, more like! Funny people crosses by this route. Funnything that you didn't notice--"

  Claire found nothing funny in the reflection. She was furious withherself for her carelessness, and still more furious with Mrs Fanshaweas the cause thereof. Down the platform she stalked, a picture of vividimpetuous youth, head thrown back, cheeks aflame, grey eyes sending outflashes of indignation. Every porter who came in her way was stoppedand imperiously questioned as to his late load, every porter was in histurn waved impatiently away. Claire was growing seriously alarmed.Suppose the box was lost! It would be as bad as losing _two_ boxes, forof what use were bodices minus skirts to match? Never again would shebe guilty of the folly of packing bits of the same costumes in differentboxes. How awful--how awful beyond words to arrive in London without adecent dress to wear!

  Whirling suddenly round to pursue yet another porter, Claire becameaware of a figure in a long tweed coat standing on the space beside thetaxi-stand, intently watching her movements. She recognised him in amoment as none other than "Erskine" himself, who, having seen his motherinto her car, was presumably bound for another destination. But why washe standing there? Why had he been so long in moving away? Clairehastily averted her eyes, but as she cross-questioned porter numberfour, she was aware that the tall figure was drawing nearer, andpresently he was standing by her side, taking off his hat, and saying inthe most courteous and deferential of tones--

  "Excuse me--I'm afraid something is wrong! Can I be of any assistance?"

  Claire's glance was frigid in its coldness; but it was difficult toremain frigid in face of the man's obvious sincerity and kindliness.

  "Thank you," she said quietly. "Please don't trouble. I can managequite well. It's only a trunk..."

  "Is it lost? I say--what a fag! Do let me help. I know this stationby heart! If it is to be found, I am sure I can get it for you."

  This time there was a distinct air of appeal in his deep voice. Clairedivined that the nice man was anxious to atone for his mother's cavalierbehaviour, and her heart softened towards him. After all, why shouldshe punish herself by refusing? Five minutes more or less on thestation platform could make no difference one way or another, for at theend they would wish each other a polite adieu, and part never to meetagain. And she _did_ want that box!

  She smiled, and sighed, and looked delightfully pretty and appealing, asshe said frankly--

  "Thank you, I _should_ be grateful for suggestions. It's the mostextraordinary and provoking thing--"

  They walked slowly down the platform while she explained the situation,and reiterated the fact that she had seen the box ten minutes before.Erskine Fanshawe did not dispute the statement as each porter had donebefore him; he contented himself with asking if there was anydistinctive feature in the appearance of the box itself.

  Claire shook her head.

  "The ordinary brown leather, with strappings and C.G. on one side. Justlike a thousand other boxes, but it had a label, beside the initials. Idon't see how anyone can have taken it by mistake." She set her teeth,and
her head took a defiant tilt. "There's one comfort; if it _is_stolen, whoever has taken it will not get much for her pains! There'snothing in it but skirts. Skirts won't be much good without the bodicesto match!"

  The man looked down at her, his expression comically compounded ofsympathy and humour. At that moment, despite the irregularity of hisfeatures, he looked wonderfully like his handsome mother.

  "Er--just so! Unfortunately, however, from the opposite point of view,you find yourself in the same position! Bodices, I presume, withoutskirts--"

  Claire groaned, and held up a protesting hand.

  "Don't! I can't bear it. It's really devastating. My whole outfit--atone fell sweep!"

  "Isn't it--excuse my suggesting it--rather a mistake to--er--dividepieces of the same garment, _so_ that if one trunk should be lost, theloss practically extends to two?"

  "No, it isn't. It's the only sensible thing to do," Claire saidobstinately. "Skirts must be packed at full length, and a dress-box ismade for that very purpose. All the same, I shall never do it again.It's no use being sensible if you have to contend with--_thieves_!"

  "I don't think we need leap to that conclusion just yet. You have onlyspoken to two or three porters. We'd better wait about a few minuteslonger until the other men come back. Very likely the box was put on atruck by accident, and if the mistake was discovered before it was puton the taxi, it would be sent back to see if its owner were waitinghere. If it doesn't turn up at once, you mustn't be discouraged. Theodds are ten to one that it's only a mistake, and in that case when thetaxi is unloaded, the box will be sent back to the lost luggage office,or forwarded to your address. Was the full address on the box, by theway?"

  Claire nodded assent.

  "Oh, yes; I have that poor satisfaction at least. I was most methodicaland prudent, but I don't know that that's going to be much consolationif I lose my nice frocks, and am too poor to buy any more."

  The last phrase was prompted by a proud determination to sail under nofalse colours in the eyes of Mrs Fanshawe's son; but the picture evokedthereby was sufficiently tragic to bring a cloud over her face. Thememory of each separate gown rose before her, looking distractinglydainty and becoming; she saw a vision of herself as she might have been,and faced a future bounded by eternal blue serge. All the tragedy ofthe thought was in her air, and her companion cried quickly--

  "You won't need to buy them! They'll turn up all right, I am quite sureof that. The worst that can happen is a day or two's delay. After all,you know, there are thousands of honest folk to a single thief, and evena thief would probably prefer a small money reward to useless halves ofdresses! If you hear nothing by to-morrow, you might offer a reward."

  "Oh, I will!" Claire said gratefully. "Thank you for thinking of it."

  No more porters having for the moment appeared in sight, they nowturned, and slowly retraced their steps. Claire, covertly regarding hercompanion, wondered why she felt convinced that he was a soldier;Erskine Fanshawe in his turn covertly regarded Claire, and wondered whyit was that she seemed different from any girl he had seen before. Thententatively he put a personal question.

  "Do you know London well, Miss Gifford? My mother told me you were--er--coming to settle--"

  "Not at all well, as a whole. I know the little bit around RegentStreet, and the Park, and the places one sees in a week's visit, butthat's all. We never stayed long in town when we came to England. Ishall enjoy exploring on half holidays when I am free from work. I am aschool-mistress!" said Claire with an air, and gathered from hercompanion's face that he knew as much already, and considered it asubject for commiseration. He looked at her with sympathetic eyes, andasked deeply--

  "Hate it very much?"

  "Not at all. Quite the contrary. I adore it. At least, that's to say,I haven't begun yet, but I feel sure I _shall_!" Claire cried ardently;and at that they both laughed with a delightful sense of understandingand _camaraderie_. At that moment Claire felt a distinct pang at thethought that never again would she have the opportunity of speaking andlaughing with this attractive, eminently companionable man; then herattention was distracted by the appearance of two more porters, who hadeach to be interviewed in his turn.

  They had no good news to give, however, so the searchers left theplatform in disgust, and repaired to the office for lost luggage, wherethe story of the missing box was recounted to an unsympathetic clerk.When a man spends his whole life listening to complaints of missingproperty, he can hardly be expected to show a vehement distress at theloss of yet another passenger, but to Claire at this moment there wassomething quite brutal in his callous indifference. The one suggestionwhich he had to make was that she could leave her name, and the mannerin which it was given was a death-blow to hope.

  At this very moment, however, just as Claire was bending forward todictate the desired information she felt a touch on her arm, and lookingin the direction of Mr Fanshawe's outstretched hand, beheld a porterapproaching the office, trundling before him a truck on which reposed insolitary splendour, a long brown dress-box, and oh, joy of joys! even atthe present distance the white letters C.G. could be plainlydistinguished on the nearer side! Claire's dignity went to the winds atthat sight, and she dashed forward to meet her property with the joyousimpetuosity of a child.

  The explanation was simple to a degree, and precisely agreed with MrFanshawe's surmise as to what had really happened. During Claire'strance of forgetfulness, the box had been wheeled away, with a largeconsignment of luggage, and the mistake discovered only when the variousitems were in process of being packed into a company's omnibus, when,there being no one at hand to claim it, it had been conveyed--by veryleisurely stages--to the lost luggage office.

  All's well that ends well! Claire gleefully collected her possessions,feeling a glow of delight in the safety which an hour before she wouldhave taken as a matter of course, and stood at attention while eachseparate item was placed on the roof of the taxi. The little addressesof which she had boasted were duly inserted in leather framings on eachbox, the delicate writing too small to be deciphered, except near athand. Claire saw her companion's eyes contract in an evident effort todistinguish the words, and immediately moved her position so as tofrustrate his purpose. She did not intend Mr Fanshawe to know heraddress! When she was seated in the taxi, however, there came anawkward moment, for her companion waved the chauffeur to his seat, andstood by the window looking in at her, with a face which seemed undulyserious and earnest, considering the extremely slight nature of theiracquaintance.

  "Well! I am thankful the box turned up. I shall think of you enjoyingyour re-united frocks... Sure you've got everything all right? Whereshall I tell the man to drive?"

  For the fraction of a second Claire's eyes flickered, then she spoke indecided tones.

  "`The Grand Hotel.'"

  Mr Fanshawe's eyes flickered too, and turned involuntarily towards theboxes on the roof. What exactly were the words on the labels he couldnot see, but at least it was certain that they were not "The GrandHotel!" He turned from the inspection to confront a flushed, obstinateface.

  "Do you wish me to give the man that address?"

  "I do."

  Very deliberately and quietly Mr Fanshawe stepped back a pace, openedhis long coat, and fumbled in an inner pocket for a leather pocket-book;very quietly and deliberately he drew from one bulging division avisiting card, and held it towards her. Claire caught the word"Captain" and saw that an address was printed in the corner, but shecovered it hastily with her hand, refusing a second glance. CaptainFanshawe leant his arm on the window sash and said hesitatingly--

  "Will you allow me to give you my card! As you are a stranger in townand your people away, there may possibly be--er--occasions, when itwould be convenient to know some man whom you could make of use. Pleaseremember me if they do come along! It would be a privilege to repayyour kindness to my mother... Send me a wire at any time, and I am atyour service. I hope you _will_ send. G
ood morning!"

  "Good-bye!" said Claire. Red as a rose was she at that moment, but verydignified and stately, bending towards him in a sweeping bow, as thetaxi rolled away. The last glimpse of Captain Fanshawe showed himstanding with uplifted hat, the keen eyes staring after her, with not aglint of humour in their grey depths. Quite evidently he meant what hesaid. Quite evidently he was as keen to pursue her acquaintance as hismother had been to drop it.

  Claire Gifford sat bolt upright on her seat, the slip of cardboardclasped within her palms, and as she sat she thought many thoughts. Aphysiognomist would have been interested to trace the progress of thosethoughts on the eloquent young face. There was surprise written there,and obvious gratification, and a demure, very feminine content; later oncame pride, and a general stiffening of determination. The spoiledchild of liberty and the High School-Mistress of the future had fought aheated battle, and the High School-Mistress had won.

  Deliberately turning aside her eyes, so that no word of that printedaddress should obtrude itself on her notice, Claire tore the cardsharply across and across, and threw the fragments out of the window.

  A moment later she whistled through the tube, and instructed thechauffeur as to her change of address.

  Adieu to the Fanshawes, and all such luxuries of the past. Heigh-ho forhard work, and lodgings at fifteen shillings a week!