“And where are you going to spend your summer holidays, my dear?”
“In September I am probably going to a farmhouse near the sea.”
“And in August?”
“In town, I think. I have an invalid friend—”
Mrs Fanshawe swept aside the suggestion with an imperious hand.
“Nonsense! Utter nonsense! Nobody stays in town in August, my good child. The thing’s impossible. I’ve passed through once or twice, en route for country visits, and it’s an unknown place. The wierdest people walking up and down! Where they come from I can’t conceive; but you never saw anything more impossible. And the shops! I knew a poor girl who became engaged at the end of July, and had to get her trousseau at once, as they sailed in September. She was in despair. Nothing to be had. She was positively in tears.”
“I shall get engaged in June,” Claire said firmly, “and take advantage of the summer sales. I call it most thoughtless of him to have waited till the end of July.”
But Mrs Fanshawe was not attending; her eyes had brightened with a sudden thought; she was saying to herself, “Why not? I should be alone. There would be no danger of complications, and the child would be a delightful companion, good to look at, plenty to say for herself, and a mind of her own. Quite useful in entertaining, too. I could play off some of my duty debts, and she could whistle to us after dinner. Quite a novelty in the country. It would be quite a draw... A capital idea! I’ll say a week, and if it works she can stay on—”
“No, my dear, you cannot possibly endure town in August, at least not the entire month. Run down to me for a break. Quite a short journey; an hour and a half from Waterloo, and the air is delightfully fresh. I shall be alone, so I can’t offer you any excitement, but if you are fond of motoring—”
The blood rushed into Claire’s face. She was so intensely, overpoweringly surprised, that, for the moment, all other feelings were in abeyance. The last thing in the world which she had expected was that Erskine’s mother should invite her to visit her home.