“I am going away to-morrow. We shall be in camp. In August I am taking part of my leave to run up to Scotland, but I can always come to town if I’m needed, or if there’s a special inducement. I came up for both the Willoughbys’ ‘At Homes.’”
“Did you?” Claire said feebly, and fell a-thinking. The inference was too plain to be misunderstood. The “special inducement” in this instance had been the hope of meeting herself. Actually it would appear that he had travelled some distance to ensure this chance, but the chance had been deliberately denied. Kind Mrs Willoughby would have welcomed her with open arms; it was Janet who had laid the ban. Janet was friendly, almost affectionate. As spring progressed she had repeatedly called at Saint Cuthbert’s after afternoon school and carried Claire off for refreshing country drives. Quite evidently she enjoyed Claire’s society, quite evidently also she preferred to enjoy it when other visitors were not present. Claire was not offended, for she knew that there was no taint of snobbishness in this decision; she was just sorry, and, in a curious fashion, remorseful into the bargain. She did not argue out the point, but instinctively she felt that Janet, not herself, was the one to be pitied!
They reached the end of the footpath: in another minute they would be in the noise and bustle of Oxford Street. Erskine Fanshawe came to an abrupt halt, faced Claire and cried impulsively—
“Miss Gifford!”
“Yes?”
Claire shrank instinctively. She knew that she was about to be asked a question which it would be difficult to answer.
Erskine planted his stick on the ground, and stared straight into her eyes.
“Why are you so determined to give me no chance of meeting you again?”
“I—I’m not determined! I hope we shall meet. Perhaps next winter—at Mrs Willoughby’s.”
He laughed grimly.