“Let me know which of these propositions suits you best. Looking forward to seeing you,—
“Your friend, (if you will have me!)
“Janet Willoughby.”
Claire had opened the letter, aglow with expectation; she laid it down feeling dazed and blank. For the moment only one fact stood out to the exclusion of every other, and that was that Janet did not wish her to be present at the “At Home.” Mrs Willoughby had sent the invitation, but Janet had supplemented it by another, which could not be refused. “I would rather have you to myself.” How was it possible to refuse an invitation couched in such terms? How could one answer with any show of civility, “I should prefer to come with the crowd?”
Claire carried the letter up to her cold bedroom, and sat down to do a little honest thinking.
“It’s very difficult to understand what one really wants! We deceive ourselves as much as we do other people... Why am I so hideously depressed? I liked going to the ‘At Home,’ I liked dressing up, and driving through the streets, and seeing the flowers and the dresses, and having the good supper; but, if that were all, I believe I’d prefer the whole day with Janet. I suppose, really, it’s Captain Fanshawe that’s at the bottom of it. I want to meet him, I thought I should meet him, and now it’s over. I shan’t be asked again when there’s a chance of his coming. Janet doesn’t want me. She’s not jealous, of course—that’s absurd—but she wants to keep him to herself, and she imagines somehow that I should interfere—”
Imagination pictured Janet staring with puzzled, uneasy eyes across the tables in the dining-room, of Janet drearily examining the piled-up presents in the boudoir, and then, like a flash of light, showed the picture of another face, now eager, animated, admiring, again grave and wistful. “Is your address still the Grand Hotel?—My address is still the Carlton Club.”
“Ah, well, well!” acknowledged Claire to her heart, “we did like each other. We did love being together, and he remembered me; he sent me the clock when he was away. But it’s all over now. That was our last chance, and it’s gone. He’ll go to the At Home, and Mrs Willoughby will tell him I was asked, but preferred to come when they were alone, and he’ll think it was because I wanted to avoid him, and—and, oh, goodness, goodness, goodness! how miserable I shall feel sitting here all Thursday evening, imagining all that is going on! Oh, mother, mother, your poor little girl is so lonesome! Why did you go so far away?”
Claire put her head down on the dressing-table, and shed a few tears, a weakness bitterly regretted, for like all weaknesses the consequences wrought fresh trouble. Now her eyelids were red, and she was obliged
