“On purpose, more like! Funny people crosses by this route. Funny thing that you didn’t notice—”
Claire found nothing funny in the reflection. She was furious with herself for her carelessness, and still more furious with Mrs Fanshawe as the cause thereof. Down the platform she stalked, a picture of vivid impetuous youth, head thrown back, cheeks aflame, grey eyes sending out flashes of indignation. Every porter who came in her way was stopped and imperiously questioned as to his late load, every porter was in his turn waved impatiently away. Claire was growing seriously alarmed. Suppose the box was lost! It would be as bad as losing two boxes, for of what use were bodices minus skirts to match? Never again would she be guilty of the folly of packing bits of the same costumes in different boxes. How awful—how awful beyond words to arrive in London without a decent dress to wear!
Whirling suddenly round to pursue yet another porter, Claire became aware of a figure in a long tweed coat standing on the space beside the taxi-stand, intently watching her movements. She recognised him in a moment as none other than “Erskine” himself, who, having seen his mother into her car, was presumably bound for another destination. But why was he standing there? Why had he been so long in moving away? Claire hastily averted her eyes, but as she cross-questioned porter number four, she was aware that the tall figure was drawing nearer, and presently he was standing by her side, taking off his hat, and saying in the most courteous and deferential of tones—
“Excuse me—I’m afraid something is wrong! Can I be of any assistance?”
Claire’s glance was frigid in its coldness; but it was difficult to remain frigid in face of the man’s obvious sincerity and kindliness.
“Thank you,” she said quietly. “Please don’t trouble. I can manage quite well. It’s only a trunk...”
“Is it lost? I say—what a fag! Do let me help. I know this station by heart! If it is to be found, I am sure I can get it for you.”
This time there was a distinct air of appeal in his deep voice. Claire divined that the nice man was anxious to atone for his mother’s cavalier behaviour, and her heart softened towards him. After all, why should she punish herself by refusing? Five minutes more or less on the station platform could make no difference one way or another, for at the end they would wish each other a polite adieu, and part never to meet again. And she did want that box!
She smiled, and sighed, and looked delightfully pretty and appealing, as she said frankly—
“Thank you, I should be grateful for suggestions. It’s the most extraordinary and provoking thing—”