Claire shook her head. She was white and shaken. The reality was even worse than she had expected, and the thought of Cecil’s bitterness of disillusion weighed on her like a nightmare. She tried to speak, but her lips trembled and Erskine drew near with a quick word of consolation—
“Claire!”
“What is this plan, Erskine? Am I not to be consulted? Remember that you are engaged to lunch with the Montgomerys to-morrow.”
Mrs Fanshawe stood in the doorway, erect, haughty, obviously annoyed. Her keen eyes rested on Claire’s face, demanding a reason for her embarrassment. Erskine made a virtue of necessity, and offered a short explanation.
“A disagreeable thing has happened, mother. Miss Gifford has discovered through Major Carew that a friend is in serious trouble. It has been rather a shock.”
“Dear me. Yes! It would be. Perhaps you would like to go to your room, my dear. I’m tired myself, and shall be glad to get to bed. I am sure you must wish to be alone. Shall we go?”
Claire said good night to the two men and went wearily upstairs. At this moment even her own inward happiness failed to console. When contrasted with her own fate, Cecil’s seemed so cruelly unfair!