If looks could have slain, the saffron parlour would have seen a dead man at that moment. Claire withdrew her hand, and surreptitiously rubbed it against her skirt. She would not condescend to notice that last remark.
“I’ll post the parcel to-morrow. Perhaps you will tell me your name, as I shall have to explain.”
He drew out a pocket-book and extracted a card. Claire dropped it unread upon the table, and bowed stiffly in farewell. The next moment he was gone, and she could satisfy her curiosity unseen. Then came surprise number two, for the card bore the inscription, “Major J.F. Carew,” and in the corner two well-remembered words, “Carlton Club.” An officer in the Army—who would have thought it! He was emphatically not a gentleman; he was rough, coarse, mannerless, yet he was in a position which would bring him into intimate association with gentle people; by a strange coincidence, he might know, he almost certainly would know, the man whom she had expected to see in his stead—Erskine Fanshawe himself! They could never be friends, but they would meet, they would sit in the same rooms, they would exchange occasional remarks. Claire’s mood of intolerable disgust changed suddenly into something strangely approaching envy of this big rough man! Christmas morning brought Janet bright and early, to find Claire standing at the window ready to rush out the moment the car stopped at the door. It felt delightfully luxurious to seat herself on the springy cushions, draw the fur rug over her knees, and feel the warmth of a hot tin beneath her feet.
“Wasn’t it lacerating?” Janet cried. “Just as I was starting the parcel post arrived, and there were about half-a-dozen parcels for me from Saint Moritz! There was no time to open them, and I simply die to know what’s inside. I care about those presents more than anything else. We had our family presents this morning. Mother gave me this.” She opened her coat to show a glittering crescent. “Quite pretty, isn’t it, but I’d rather have had pearls. That’s the worst of Christmas presents, you so seldom get what you want. Half the time you feel more disappointed than pleased. People cling to the idea that they ought to give you a surprise, and you are surprised, but not in the way they expect. I have given mother thousands of hints about pearls. Ah, well!” She hooked the coat with an air of resignation. “We must take the will for the deed. Have you had nice things?”
“My mother sent me a very handsome present,” Claire said demurely. She had no personal agitations about the day’s post; but she did feel interested in the thought of those parcels from Switzerland which lay awaiting Janet Willoughby’s return. Half eager, half shrinking, she looked forward to seeing their contents.
It was in Janet’s dainty boudoir that the unpacking took place. The two girls went straight upstairs on their return from church, and there, on a gate-legged table, lay the pile of parcels which had arrived by the morning’s delivery. Janet pounced upon the Swiss packets, and cut the fastenings with eager haste. From across the room Claire watched her eager face as she read the inscriptions one by one. As she neared the end of the pile, the eagerness became tinged with anxiety; she picked up the last parcel of all, and the light died out of her face.
Claire turned aside and affected to be absorbed in examining the contents of an old cabinet, and Janet moved to the nearer side of the table so that her face was hidden from view; after a few minutes of silence, she broke the silence in a voice of forced lightness.
“Won’t you come and look at my trophies? Switzerland is not a very happy hunting-ground, for there is so little variety to be had. That’s my fifth carved chalet, and about the seventeenth bear. Rather a dear, though, isn’t he? Such a nice man sent it—one of the nicest of men. That’s his photograph on the mantelpiece.”
Claire looked, met a straight keen glance which lived in her memory, and felt a tingle of blood in her cheeks. Janet’s eyes followed hers, and she said quickly—
“Not that; that’s Erskine Fanshawe. He is a casual person, and doesn’t go in for presents. He hasn’t even troubled to send a card. I meant the man in the leather frame. He always remembers. I do like that, in a man! They are all good enough in an emergency, but so few of them think of the nice little things!” Janet sighed, and dropped the carved wooden bear on to the table. However much she might appreciate the donor’s thoughtfulness, it had not had a cheering effect. The light had died out of her eyes, and she turned over the various trophies without a trace of the enthusiasm with which she had torn open the parcel. Claire standing beside her felt torn between sympathy and a guilty sense of relief. She was sorry for Janet’s obvious disappointment, but she was also (it was a dog-in-the-manger feeling, for how could it possibly affect herself?) relieved that Captain Fanshawe was not the donor of the bear!