to hang shivering out of the window, until they had regained their natural colour, before she could face Cecil’s sharp eyes.
Janet arrived soon after eleven o’clock on Saturday morning, and was shown into the saffron parlour where Claire sat over her week’s mending. She wore a spring suit purchased in Paris, and a hat which was probably smart, but very certainly was unbecoming, slanting as it did at a violent angle over her plump, good-humoured face, and almost entirely blinding one eye. She caught sight of her own reflection in the overmantel and exclaimed, “What a fright I look!” as she seated herself by the table, and threw off her furs. “Don’t hurry, please. Let me stay and watch. What are you doing? Mending a blouse? How clever of you to be able to use your fingers as well as your brains! I never sew, except stupid fancy-work for bazaars. So this is your room! You told me about the walls. Can you imagine any one in cold blood choosing such a paper? But it looks cosy all the same. I do like little rooms with everything carefully in reach. They are ever so much nicer than big ones, aren’t they?”
“No.”
Janet pealed with laughter.
“That’s right, snub me! I deserve to be snubbed. Of course, I meant when you have big ones as well! Who is the pretty girl in the carved frame? Your mother! Do you mean it, really? What a ridiculous mamma! I’m afraid, Claire, I’m afraid she is even prettier than you!”
“Oh, she is; I know it. But I have more charm,” returned Claire demurely, whereat they laughed again—a peal of happy girlish laughter, which reached Lizzie’s ears as she polished the oilcloth in the hall, and roused an envious sigh.
“It’s well to be some folks!” thought poor Lizzie. “Motor-cars, and fine dresses, and nothing to do of a Saturday morning but sit still and laugh. I could laugh myself if I was in her shoes!”
Claire folded away her blouse, and took up a bundle of gloves.
“These are your gloves. They have been such a comfort to me. There’s a button missing somewhere. Tell me all about your holiday! Did you have a good time? Was it as nice as you expected?”
“Yes. No. It was a good time, but—do you think anything ever quite comes up to one’s expectation? I had looked forward to that month for the whole year, and had built so many fairy castles. You have stayed in Switzerland? You know how the scene changes when the sun sinks, how those beautiful alluring rose-coloured peaks become in a minute awesome and gloomy. Well, it was rather like that with me. I don’t mean that it was gloomy; that’s exaggerating, but it was prose, and I had pictured it poetry. Heigho! It’s a weary world.”