Like a whirlwind she dashed out of the room, and Claire put her elbow on the table and leant her head on her hands, feeling shaken, and discouraged, and oppressed. For the first time a doubt entered her mind as to whether she could continue to live with Mary Rhodes. In her brighter modes there was much that was attractive in her personality, but to live with a chronic grumbler sapped one’s own powers of resistance. Claire felt that for the sake of her own happiness and efficiency it would be wiser to make a change, but her heart sank at the thought of making a fresh start, of perhaps having to live alone with no one to speak to in the long evenings. The life of a bachelor girl made little appeal at that moment. Liberty seemed dearly bought at the price of companionship.
Claire spent the morning writing to her mother and reading over the series of happy letters which had reached her week after week. Mrs Judge was in radiant spirits, delighted with the conditions of her new life, full of praise of her husband and the many friends to whom she had been introduced. Three-fourths of the letter were taken up with descriptions of her own gay doings, the remaining fourth with optimistic remarks on her daughter’s life. How delightful to share rooms with another girl! What a nice break to have every Saturday and Sunday free! What economical rooms! Claire must feel quite rich. What fun to have the girls so devoted!
Claire made an expressive grimace as she read that “quite rich.” This last week she had been obliged to buy new gloves, and to have her boots mended. A new umbrella had been torn by the carelessness with which another teacher had thrust her own into the crowded stand, and one night she had been seized with a longing for a dainty well-cooked meal, and had recklessly stood treat at a restaurant. She did not feel at all “rich” as she made up the week’s account, and reflected that next week the expense of driving to Mrs Willoughby’s “At Home” would again swell up the total of these exasperating “extras” which made such havoc of advance calculations.
Cecil did not appear until lunch was on the table, when she flung the door wide open and marched in with an air of bravado, as if wanting her companion to stare at once and get over it. It would have been impossible not to stare, for the change in her appearance was positively startling to behold. Her dark hair was waved and fashionably coiffed. Her best coat and skirt had been embellished with frills of lace at neck and sleeves, a pretty little waistcoat had been manufactured out of a length of blue ribbon and a few paste buttons, while a blue feather necklet had been promoted a step higher, and encircled an old straw hat. The ribbon bow at the end of the boa exactly matched the shade of the waistcoat, and was cocked up at a daring angle, while a becoming new veil and a pair of immaculate new gloves added still further to the effect.
Claire had always suspected that Cecil could be pretty if she chose to take the trouble, and now she knew it for a fact. It was difficult to realise that this well-groomed-looking girl, with the bright eyes and softly-flushed cheeks, could really be the same person as the frumpy-looking individual who every morning hurried along the street.
Involuntarily Claire threw up her hands; involuntarily she cried aloud in delight “Cheers! Cheers! How do you do, Cecil? Welcome home, Cecil!—the real Cecil! How pretty you are, Cecil! How well that blue suits you! Don’t dare to go back to your dull navy and black. I shall insist that you always wear blue. I feel quite proud of having such a fine lady to lunch. You are going to have lunch, aren’t you? Why those gloves and veil?”
“Oh, well—I’m not hungry. I’ll have some coffee. I may have lunch in town.” Cecil was plainly embarrassed under her companion’s scrutiny. She pushed up her veil, so that it rested in a little ridge across her nose, craned forward her head, sipping her coffee with exaggerated care, so that no drop should fall on her lacy frills.
Claire longed to ask a dozen questions, but something in Cecil’s manner held her at bay, and she contented herself with one inquiry—
“What time will you be home?”
Cecil shrugged her shoulders.