“Janet! Are you waiting for a table? We have nearly finished. Won’t you sit down and talk to Miss Gifford?”
“Oh, please don’t hurry... We’ll find another place. You have met before, then? I didn’t know.”
“I saw Miss Gifford when she was befriending my mother at Liverpool Street Station, and recognised her upstairs just now. Do sit down, Janet. You look tired.”
Janet Willoughby took the offered chair and exchanged a few words with Claire as she gathered together her possessions, but the subtle change persisted. Claire felt vaguely disturbed, but the next half-hour passed so pleasantly that she had no time to puzzle over the explanation. Captain Fanshawe never left her side; they sat together on the same sofa which Great-aunt Jane had monopolised for the earlier part of the evening, and talked of many things, and discussed many problems, and sometimes agreed, and oftener disagreed, and when they disagreed most widely, looked into each other’s eyes and smiled, as who should say, “What do words matter? We understand!”
At one o’clock Claire rose to depart, and said her adieu to her hostess and her daughter, who were standing side by side.
“My dear, it is too bad. I have had no time with you, and I am so grateful for the charming way in which you came to the rescue! We shall hope to see you often again. Shan’t we, Janet? You girls must arrange a day which suits you both.”
“Oh, yes, we must!” Janet said, as she shook hands, but she made no attempt to make the arrangement there and then, as her mother obviously expected, and Claire realised, with a sinking of the heart, that a promised friendship had received a check.
When she descended to the hall wrapped in her filmy cloak it was to find Captain Fanshawe waiting at the foot of the stairs. He looked worried and grave, and the front door was reached before he made the first remark. Then, lingering tentatively on the threshold, he looked down at her with a searching glance.
“Is—er—is your address still the Grand Hotel?”
Claire’s face set into firm lines.