“That accounts for it,” said Miss Bates enigmatically. “I wondered— You are not a bit the usual type.”
“I hope that doesn’t mean that I can’t teach?”
Miss Bates laughed, and shrugged her thin shoulders. “Oh, no. I should say, personally, that you teach very well. That play was extraordinarily good. It absolutely sounded like French. Can’t think how you knocked the accent into them! English girls are so self-conscious; they are ashamed of letting themselves go. Mademoiselle thinks that your classes are too like play; but it doesn’t matter what she thinks, so long as—” she paused a moment, lowered her voice, and added impressively, “Keep on the right side of Miss Farnborough. You are all right so long as you are in her good books. Better be careful.”
“What do you mean?” Claire stared, puzzled and discomposed, decidedly on the offensive; but Miss Bates refused a definite answer.
“Nothing!” she said tersely. “Only—people who take sudden fancies, can take sudden dislikes, too. Ask no more questions, but don’t say I didn’t warn you, that’s all!”
She lifted her coffee-cup, and strolled away, leaving Claire to reflect impatiently, “More poison! It’s too bad. They won’t let one be happy!”
Before the end of the week school work settled into its old routine, and the days passed by with little to mark their progress. The English climate was at its worst, and three times out of four the journey to school was accomplished in rain or sleet. The motor-’buses were crammed with passengers, and manifested an unpleasant tendency to skid; pale-faced strap-holders crowded the carriages of the Tube; for days together the sky remained a leaden grey. It takes a Mark Tapley himself to keep smiling under such conditions. As Claire recalled the days when she and her mother had sat luxuriously under the trees in the gardens of Riviera hotels, listening to exhilarating bands, and admiring the outline of the Esterels against the cloudless blue of the sky, the drab London streets assumed a dreariness which was almost insupportable. Also, though she would not acknowledge it to herself, she was achingly disappointed, because something which she had sub-consciously been expecting did not come to pass. She had expected something to happen, but nothing happened; all through February the weeks dragged on, unrelieved by any episode except the weekly mail from India.
The little brown bird still industriously piped the hour; but his appearance no longer brought the same warm thrill of happiness. And then one morning came a note from Janet Willoughby.
“Dear Miss Gifford,—
“I should really like to call you ‘Claire,’ but I must wait to be asked! I have been meaning to write ever since we returned from Saint Moritz; but you know how it is in town, such a continual rush, that one can never get through half the things that ought to be done! We should all like to see you again. Mother has another ‘At Home’ on Thursday evening next, and would be glad to see you then, if you cared to come; but what I should like is to have you to myself! On Saturday next I could call for you, as I did at Christmas, and keep you for the whole day. Then we could talk as we couldn’t do at the ‘At Homes,’ which are really rather dull, duty occasions.