She drew Claire round so that they stood in front of the Chippendale mirror over the mantelpiece, from whence a row of pictured faces stared back, as though stolidly sitting in judgment. The clear tints of Claire’s skin made Janet look sallow and faded, the dark curve of her eyebrows under the sweep of gold brown hair, the red lips and deeply cleft chin, made Janet’s indeterminate features look insignificant, the brown eyes seemed the only definite feature in her face, and they were clouded with depression.
“Look at yourself,” she said deeply, “and look at me!”
It was an awkward moment, and Claire shrugged uncomfortably.
“But my face is—it has to be—my fortune!”
“Oh, beauty! I wasn’t thinking of beauty,” Janet cried unexpectedly. “You are very pretty, of course, but heaps of girls are pretty. It’s something more—I suppose it is what is called Charm. When people see you once, they remember you; they want to see you again. You make a place for yourself. I am one in a crowd. People like me well enough when they are with me, but—they forget!”
“And I never meet anyone to remember. We’re two love-lorn damsels, and this is Merrie Christmas. Would you have thought it?” cried Claire, and that wrought the desired effect, for Janet awoke with a shock to her responsibilities as hostess, and led the way downstairs to join the rest of the house-party.
The rest of the day was spent in conventional English fashion in a praiseworthy effort to sustain spirits at concert pitch, and keep up a continuous flow of gaiety, a mountainous task when guests are brought together by claims of birth, without consideration as to suitability! Mrs Willoughby’s party consisted of four distinct elements; there were Great-aunt Jane, and second cousin William, two octogenarians, who for health’s sake dined early all the year round, and sipped a cup of Benger at eight, but who dauntlessly tackled sausages and plum pudding on Christmas Day, and suffered for it for a week to come. There were Mr and Mrs Willoughby, and two cousin husbands and their wives, and a spinster aunt to represent the next generation, then came sweet and twenty as represented by Janet and Claire, followed by Reginald of Eton, on whom they looked down as a mere boy, the while he in his turn disdained to notice the advances of two curly-headed cousins of nine and ten! Claire enjoyed herself because it was in her nature to enjoy, and it felt good to be once more in a beautiful, well-appointed home, among friends; but driving home in the taxi she yawned persistently from one door to the other. It was dreadfully tiring work being pleasant at the same time to the whole five ages of man!
With the opening of the door of the saffron parlour came an end of sleepiness, for on the table lay a square parcel, and the parcel bore the same stamp, the same markings which she had seen duplicated in Janet Willoughby’s boudoir! Red as a rose was Claire as she stared at the bold masculine writing of the address, tore open the wrappings of the box, and drew forth a carved cuckoo clock with the well-known chalet roof and long pendulum and chains. It was an exquisite specimen of its kind, the best that could be obtained, but for the moment Claire had no attention to spare for the gift itself; she was absorbed in hunting among the paper and straw for a card which should settle the identity of the donor. Not a line was to be found. Pink deepened to crimson on Claire’s cheeks.
“Who in the world could have sent it? Who could it be?” She played at bewilderment, but in spite of herself the dimples dipped. “Now how in the world has he found out my address?” asked Claire of herself.
For the next week Claire experienced the sensation of being “alone in London.” From the evening of Christmas Day until Cecil returned on January 2nd, not one friendly word did she hear; she walked abroad among a crowd of unknown faces, she returned to a solitary room.