“You are one of the truest-hearted women I know,” said Claire, taking her hand.
“There’s a character for me, my dear,” said Mrs Barclay, turning to Cora and nodding her head and laughing. “Ah, I must tell you that too,” she cried as the recollection came, “just because—”
“Mrs Barclay,” said Claire, rising, “pray spare me. I am not well; I have not been well lately, and—and—I know you will forgive me.”
“Forgive you, my dear?” cried Mrs Barclay. “Why, of course. It’s horribly thoughtless of me. There, good-bye. Are you coming, Miss Dean?”
Cora rose, feeling that she could not stay longer, and after a warm leave-taking, during which the two younger women mentally asked themselves whether they were friends or bitter enemies, Claire’s visitors withdrew and walked together along the parade.
The slightest touch set Mrs Barclay’s tongue going, and before they had gone far Cora was in full possession of the newly-retailed story about Claire’s visits to the fishermen’s huts.
“And do you believe this of her?” said Cora, with an eagerness that she could not conceal.
“Now, we’re just become friendly, my dear, and I should be sorry to say anything nasty, but I ask you do I look as if I believed it?”
“You look as if you were Claire Denville’s best friend,” said Cora diplomatically.
“And so I am,” replied Mrs Barclay proudly. “I can’t help people talking scandal. They glory in it. And, look here, my dear, it isn’t far from here, and if you don’t mind, we’ll go along the cliff to the very house and call.”