Claire was silent, applauding the sentiment in the abstract, but shrinking from its application to the swarthy Major Carew. She stretched her hand across the table, and laid it caressingly on Cecil’s arm.
“Pauvre! Dear old girl! It’s no use saying he wasn’t worth having—that’s no comfort. When you have loved a man, it must be the worst blow of all to be obliged to despise him; but men are not all like that, Cecil; you mustn’t condemn them all because of one bad specimen. I’ve a great admiration for men. As a whole they are bigger than women—I mean mentally bigger—freer from mean little faults. As a rule they have a stricter sense of honour. That’s an old-fashioned attitude, I suppose, but I don’t care; it’s been my experience, and I can only speak what I know. The average man is honourable, is faithful!”
“Ah, you are speaking of your experience as a leisured girl—a girl living at home with her mother behind her. It’s a different story when you are on your own. A man finds it pleasant enough to be friends with a bachelor girl, to take her about, give her little presents, and play the fairy prince generally. The dear little soul is so grateful”—Cecil’s voice took a bitter note—“so appreciative of his condescension! He can enjoy her society without being bothered with chaperons and conventions. It is really an uncommonly jolly way of passing the time. But, when it comes to marrying, does he want to marry the bachelor girl?”
Claire pushed her chair from the table, her face looked suddenly white and tired, there was a suspicious quiver in her voice.
“Oh, Cecil, don’t, don’t! You are poisoning me again. Leave me some faith! If I can’t believe in my fellow-creatures, I’d rather die at once, and be done with it. It stifles me to breathe the atmosphere of distrust and suspicion. And it isn’t true. There are good men, who would be all the more chivalrous because a girl was alone. I know it! I’m sure of it! I refuse to believe that every man is a blackguard because you have had an unfortunate experience.”
Mary Rhodes stared, abashed. Since the night when Claire had implored her not to poison her mind, she had never seen her merry, easy-going companion so aroused; but for the moment regret was swamped in curiosity. Ostensibly Claire was arguing in the plural, but in reality she was defending a definite man; Cecil was sure of it; saw her suspicion confirmed in the paling cheeks and distended eyes; heard it confirmed in the shaking voice. But who could the man be? Claire was the most candid, the most open of colleagues; she loved to talk and describe any experiences which came her way; every time she returned from an afternoon in town she had a dozen amusing incidents to recount, which in themselves constituted a guide to her doings. Cecil felt satisfied that Claire had had no masculine escort on any of these occasions, and with the one exception of Mrs Willoughby’s “At Home” she had paid no social visits. Yet there did exist a man on whose honour she was prepared to pin her faith; of that Cecil was convinced. Probably it was someone in Brussels whom she was still hoping to meet again!
“Well, don’t get excited,” she said coolly. “If you choose to look upon life as a fairy tale, it’s not my business to wake you up. The Sleeping Beauty position is very soothing while it lasts. Don’t say I didn’t warn you, that’s all! I don’t call it exactly ‘poisonous’ to try to prevent another girl from suffering as badly as one has suffered oneself.”
“Perhaps not—certainly not, but it was the way you did it. Sorry, Cecil, if I was cross! I hope this time, dear, all will go well, and that you’ll be very, very happy. Do tell me anything you can. I won’t ask questions, but I’d love to hear.”
Cecil’s laugh had rather a hard intonation.
“Oh, well! once bitten, twice shy. I’m older this time, and it’s a different thing. Perhaps I shall be all the happier because I don’t expect too much. He’s very devoted, and he’ll be rich some day, but his father gives him no allowance, which makes things tight just now. He is an erratic old man, almost a miser, but there are pots of money in the family. Frank showed me the name in Landed Gentry; there’s quite a paragraph about them, and I’ve seen a picture of the house, too. A beautiful place; and he’s the eldest son. It’s in Surrey—quite near town.”