“I was just—” Claire began impulsively, drew herself up, and finished demurely—“I suppose it is.”
“You haven’t been at either of Mrs Willoughby’s ‘At Homes.’”
“No; but I’ve seen a good deal of them all the same. They have been so kind.”
“Don’t you care for the ‘At Homes’? I asked Mrs Willoughby about you, and she seemed to imply that you preferred not to go.”
“Oh, no! Oh, no! That was quite wrong. I did enjoy that evening. It was a—a misunderstanding, I think,” said Claire, much exercised to find an explanation of what could really not be explained. Of the third “At Home” she had heard nothing until this moment, and a pang of retrospective disappointment mingled with her present content. “I have been to the house several times when they were alone,” she continued eagerly. “They even asked me on Christmas Day.”
“I know,” he said shortly. “I was in Saint Moritz, skating in the sunshine, when I heard how you were spending your Christmas holidays.” His face looked suddenly grim and set. “A man feels pretty helpless at a time like that. I didn’t exactly enjoy myself for the rest of that afternoon.”
“That was stupid of you, but—but very nice all the same,” Claire said softly. “It wouldn’t have made things easier for me if other people had been dull, and, after all, I came off better than I expected.”
“You were all alone—in your Grand Hotel?”
“Only for a week.” Claire resolutely ignored the hit. “Then my friend came back, and we made some little excursions together, and enjoyed being lazy, and getting up late, and reading lots of nice books. I had made all sorts of good resolutions about the work I was going to get through in the holidays, but I never did one thing.”
“Do you often come to the Park?”