“Miss Farnborough would never let me off. She would be indignant with me for asking.”
“I’ll tackle Miss Farnborough. Leave Miss Farnborough to me!” returned Erskine with so confident an air that Claire shook with amusement, seeing before her a picture of her lover seated tête-à-tête with the formidable “Head,” breaking to her the news that one of her staff intended to play truant.
“It’s very easy to say that. You don’t know her. She thinks everything in the world comes second to education.”
“What if she does? I’ll agree with her. You’re the most precious darling in all the world, but you can’t honestly believe that there aren’t a thousand other mistresses who could teach those flappers as well, or better! Whereas for me—well! it’s Claire, or no one. I’ll throw myself on the good lady’s tender mercies, and ask for your release as a favour to myself, and I bet you anything you like that I succeed. Miss Farnborough was a woman before she was a school-mistress. She’ll set you free all right!”
“Perhaps—perhaps possibly at the half term.”
“Rubbish—the half term! We’ll be married and settled down before we get near then... Where will you go for our marriage, Claire? To Mrs Willoughby? I’m sure she’d be willing.”
“No!—no!” Claire marvelled at the obtuseness of men; at the utter unconsciousness of this particular man of the reason why Mrs Willoughby’s house should be the last one on earth from which his marriage should take place. And then in the midst of these questionings, to her own surprise a sudden pricking of tears came to her eyes, and she cried sharply, “I want mother! I must have mother. She must come home. She’ll come at once, when she hears—”
“We’ll cable to-day. That will be best of all. I’m longing to meet your mother, and you ought to have her with you, little lass! Poor, little, lonely lass! Please God, you shall never be lonely any more.”
“Ah, Erskine darling, but the other women!” Claire cried, and there was the sharpness of pain in her voice.
From within the shelter of her lover’s arms her heart went out in a wave of tenderness towards her sisters who stood apart from the royal feast; towards Cecil with her blighted love, Sophie with her blighted health, with the thousand others for whom they stood as types; the countless hordes of women workers for whom life was a monotonous round of grey-hued days, shadowed by the prospect of age and want. From the shelter of her lover’s arms, Claire Gifford vowed herself to the service of her working sisters. From the bottom of her heart she thanked God for the year of work which had taught her to understand.