“Honestly? You won’t mind?”
“Not one single little bit! I told you he is a mere acquaintance.”
“Then,” said Claire deliberately, “I think he is the most horrible, detestable, insufferable, altogether despicable creature I have ever met in the whole of my life!”
“What! What! I say, you are down on him!” Captain Fanshawe stared, beamed with an obvious relief, then hastened to defend an absent man. “You’re wrong, you know; really you’re wrong! I don’t call Carew the most attractive fellow you can meet; rather rough manners, don’t you know, but he’s all right—Carew’s all right. You mustn’t judge by appearances, Miss Gifford. Some of the most decent fellows in the Club are in his set. Upon my word, I think he is quite a good sort.” Captain Fanshawe waxed the more eloquent as Claire preserved her expression of incredulous dislike. He looked at her curiously, and said, “I suppose I mustn’t ask—I suppose you couldn’t tell me exactly why you are so interested in Carew?”
“I’m afraid not. No; I’m afraid I can’t,” Claire said regretfully. Then suddenly there flashed through her mind a remembrance of the many tangles and misunderstandings which take place in books for want of a little sensible out-speaking. She looked into Captain Fanshawe’s face with her pretty dark-lashed eyes and said honestly, “I wanted to know about him for the sake of—another person? Nothing to do with myself! I have only met him twice. I hope I shall never meet him again!”
“Thank you,” said the man simply, and at the time neither of the two realised the full significance of those quiet words. It was only on living over the interview on her return home that Claire remembered and understood!
For the next quarter of an hour they abandoned the personal note, and discussed the various topics of the hour. They did not always agree, and neither was of the type to be easily swayed from a preconceived opinion, but always they were interested, always they felt a sympathy for the other view, never once was there a fraction of a pause. They had so much to say that they could have talked for hours.
Gradually the Park began to empty, the string of motors grew less, the crowd on the footpath no longer lounged, but walked quickly with a definite purpose; the green chairs stood in rows without a single occupant. Claire looked round, realised her isolation, drew an involuntary sigh, and rose in her turn.
“It’s getting late. I must be hurrying home. I go to the Marble Arch and take a motor-’bus. Please don’t let me take you out of your way!”
He looked at her straightly but did not reply, and they paced together down the broad roadway, past the sunken beds of rhododendrons with the fountain playing in the centre, towards the archway which seemed to both so unnecessarily near! Claire thought of the six months which lay behind, saw before her a vision of months ahead unenlightened by another meeting, and felt suddenly tired and chill. Captain Fanshawe frowned and bit at his lower lip.