“Couldn’t tell you to save my life. Rather an out-size, isn’t she? Towers over the men. I say! you ought to go to Lord’s Will you turn up at Lord’s next year to see our match? We might meet somewhere and I’d give you tea. Harrow won’t have a chance. We’ve got a bowler who—”
“Can he really? How nice! Oh, that is a curious-looking man with the long hair! I’m sure he is something, or does something different from other people. Is he a musician, do you think? Do you ever have music on these evenings?”
“Rather! Sometimes the mater hires a big swell, sometimes she lets loose the amateurs. She knows lots of amateurs, y’know. People who are trying to be big-wigs, and want the chance to show off. The mater encourages them. Great mistake if you ask me, but you needn’t listen if you don’t want. She has one of these crushes once a month. Beastly dull, I call them. Can’t think why the people come. But she gives them a rattling good feed. Supper comes on at twelve, in the dining-room downstairs.”
But Claire was not interested in supper. All her attention was taken up in watching the stream of people passing by, and for a time the youth of her companion had seemed an advantage, since it made it easy to indulge her curiosity concerning her fellow-guests by a succession of questions which might have been boring to an adult. As time passed on, however, and she became conscious that more than one pair of masculine eyes turned in her direction, she wished frankly Master Reginald would remember his mother’s instructions and proceed without further delay to introduce her to “someone nice.” To return home and confess to Cecil that she had spent the evening in company with a schoolboy would be almost as humiliating as sitting alone in a corner.
It was at this point that Claire became aware of the presence of a very small, very wizened old woman sitting alone at the opposite side of the room, her mittened hands clawing each other restlessly in her lap, her sunken eyes glancing to right and left with a glance distinctly hostile. The passing of guests frequently hid her from view, but when a gap came again, there she sat, still alone, still twisting her mittened hands, still coldly staring around. Claire thought she looked a very disagreeable old lady, but she was sorry for her all the same. Horrid to be old and cross, and to be alone in a crowd! She put yet another question to the boy by her side.
“That,” said Master Willoughby seriously, “is Great-aunt Jane. Great-aunt Jane is the skeleton in our cupboard. The mater says so, and she ought to know. Every time the mater has a show, the moment the door is opened, in comes Great-aunt Jane, and sits it out until every one has gone. If any one dares speak to her she snaps his head off, and if they let her alone, she’s furious, and gives it to the mater after they’re gone. Most of the crowd know her by now, and pretend they don’t see, ... and she gets waxier and waxier. Would you like to be introduced?”
“Yes, please!” said Claire unexpectedly. She was tired of sitting in one corner, and wanted to move her position, but she was also quite genuinely anxious to try her hand at cheering poor cross Great-aunt Jane. The old lady pensionnaires in the “Villa Beau Séjour” had made a point of petting and flattering the pretty English girl, and Claire was complacently assured that this old lady would follow their example. But she was mistaken.
“Aunt Jane, Miss Gifford asks to be introduced to you. Miss Gifford—Lady Jane Willoughby.”
Reginald beat a hurried retreat, and Claire seated herself at the end of the sofa and smilingly awaited her companion’s lead. It did not come. After one automatic nod of the head, Lady Jane resumed her former position, taking no more notice of the new-comer than if she had remained at the far end of the room. Claire felt her cheeks begin to burn. Her complacence had suffered a shock, but pride came to her rescue, and she made a determined effort at conversation.
“That nice boy has been telling me that he has had appendicitis.”