Immediately after lunch Agnes found it necessary to go in haste to the village; so that Clare was left alone in the room which had been turned into a studio.
When Agnes returned in a couple of hours, she found the girl, not in the studio, but in the drawingroom. The wintry twilight had almost dwindled away. The room was nearly dark. The gleam of a white handkerchief drew her eyes to the sofa, upon which Clare was lying, her face upon one of the cushions.
“Why, what on earth is the matter?” she cried. “Why are you lying there? What—tears?”
Clare sprang to her feet, touched her eyes once more with her handkerchief, and then flung it away. In another instant she was in Agnes's arms.
“Oh, my dearest,” she cried, “I am only crying because I am so happy. Never was any one so happy before since the beginning of the world. He has been here.”
“Who has been here—Mr. Westwood?”
“Of course. Who else was there to come? Who else is worth talking about in the world? He has been here, and he loves me—he loves me—he loves me! Only think of it.”
“And you sent him away?”
“Not until I had told him all that was in my heart.”
“You told him that you loved another man?”