Cecil flushed uncomfortably.
“I must pay this. Frank has forgotten. He rushed off in such a hurry.”
She pulled out her shabby purse, and Claire made no protest. In a similar position she herself would have wished to pay, but it was inconceivable that she should ever be in such a position. However hurried a man might be— She rubbed her hand on her knee with a little shudder of distaste. “Wretch! He would make love to me, too, if I would allow it! How can Cecil possibly care for such a man?”
And then she forgot Cecil’s feelings to ponder on a more perplexing problem.
Why had the man called Vavasour looked so amused, and why had the sweet-faced woman looked so distressed?
Chapter Thirteen.
A double invitation.
Janet Willoughby sent Claire a picture postcard, all white snow and strong shadow, and dazzling blue sky, and little black figures pirouetting on one leg with the other raised perilously in the rear. “This is me!” was written across the most agile of the number, while a scrawling line across the top ran, “Happy New Year! Returning on Tuesday. Hope to see you soon.” Tuesday was the day on which school re-opened; but Janet’s holiday was year long, not a short four weeks.