Chapter Nineteen.
Erskine Fanshawe’s Home.
Claire dreaded Mary Rhodes’ curiosity on the subject of her proposed visit, but in effect there was none forthcoming. Cecil was too much engrossed in her own affairs to feel anything but a passing interest.
“Some one you met at the Willoughbys’? Only the old lady? Rather you than me! Nice house though, I suppose; gardens, motors, that kind of thing. Dull, but luxurious. Perhaps you’ll stay on permanently as her companion.”
“That,” Claire said emphatically, “will never happen! I was thinking of clothes... I am quite well-off for evenings, and I can manage for afternoons, but I do think I ought to indulge in one or two ‘drastic bargains’ for morning wear. I saw some particularly drastic specimens in Knightsbridge this week. Cecil ... could you—I hate asking, but could you pay me back?”
Cecil’s stare of amazement was almost comical under the circumstances.
“My—good—girl! I was really pondering whether I dare, I’m horribly hard up, and that’s the truth. I’ve had calls...”
“Not Major Carew again? I can’t understand it, Cecil. You know I inquired about him, you told me to ask if I had a chance, and his father is rich. He might fly into a rage if he were asked for money, but he would give it in the end. Major Carew might have a bad half-hour, but what is that compared with borrowing from you! And from a man’s point of view it’s so little, such very small sums!” She caught a change of expression on the other’s face, and leapt at its meaning. “Cecil! You have been giving more! Your savings!”