"Miss Hartill—you are not suggesting——?" Her tone invited confidence.
Clare gave a little natural laugh.
"Oh, my dear woman—I'm all nerves just at present. Of course I'm not suggesting anything. One gets absurd ideas into one's head. I'm only too relieved to hear you laugh at me. Your common sense is always a real support to me, you know. I've grown to depend on it all these years. I'm afraid I've got into the way of taking it too much for granted."
She gave a charming little deprecatory shrug.
Henrietta flushed: she felt herself warming unaccountably to Clare Hartill. She wondered why she had never before taken the trouble to draw her out.... She was evidently a woman of heart as well as brain. She felt vaguely that she must constantly have been unjust to her. But these sensations only whetted her eager curiosity. She pulled in her chair to the hearth.
"But what ideas, Miss Hartill? If you will tell me—I should be the last person to laugh. I have far too much respect for—I wish you would tell me what is worrying you. Does anything make you think it was not an accident?"
Clare was the picture of reluctance.
"Impressions—vague ideas—is it fair to formulate them? Even if Louise were unbalanced—but, of course, I did not see much of her out of class. I confess I thought her manner strained at times. But I teach. I have nothing to do with the supervision of the younger children."
"That is Miss Durand's business," remarked Henrietta crisply.
"Oh, but if she had noticed anything——" began Clare. Then, lamely, "Obviously she didn't——"