“But if I were not content to wait for ‘perhaps next winter—at Mrs Willoughby’s.’ ... What then?”
Claire looked at him gravely.
“What would you suggest? I have no home in London, and no relations, and your mother, Captain Fanshawe, would not introduce me to you when she had the chance!”
He made a gesture of impatience.
“Oh, my mother is the most charming of women—and the most indiscreet. She acts always on the impulse of the moment. She introduced you to Mrs Willoughby, or asked Mrs Willoughby to introduce herself, which comes to the same thing. Surely that proves that she—she—”
He broke off, finding a difficulty in expressing what he wanted to say; but Claire understood, and emphatically disagreed. To enlist a friend’s sympathy was a very different thing from running the risk of entangling the affections of an only son! Obviously, however, she could not advance this argument, so they stood, the man and the girl, looking at one another, helpless, irresolute, while the clock opposite ticked remorselessly on. Then, with an abruptness which lent added weight to his words, Erskine said boldly—
“I want to meet you again! I am not content to wait upon chance.”
Claire did not blush; on the contrary, the colour faded from her cheeks. Most certainly she also was not content, but she did not waver in her resolution.
“I’m afraid there’s nothing else for it. It’s one of the hardships of a working girl’s life that she can’t entertain or make plans. It seems more impossible to me, perhaps, from having lived abroad where conventions are so strict. English girls have had more freedom. I don’t see what I can do. I’m sorry!”—she held out her hand in farewell. “I hope some day I shall see you again!”
Quite suddenly Captain Fanshawe’s mood seemed to change. The set look left his face; he smiled—a bright confident smile.