"Oh, Muriel, do look at Miss Reeve coming up the path!" Clare darted forward and peered over the edge of the rock. The young lady from the Swiss hotel, the sophisticated philosopher on Life, had vanished. The Irish urchin, impish, grinning, disreputable, took her place. "Do just watch her hat bobbing along the path! It's as round as a soup plate. Why do people wear such hats? It should be forbidden by law. Here, hand me one of those little stones. Quick!"
Unthinking and hypnotized, Muriel obeyed.
Plop! went the stone, right into the middle of Miss Reeve's round hat. Clare was back behind the rock.
"Oh, Clare, she'll see you," agonized Muriel.
Clare chuckled. "She won't. I never get found out."
But for once she was wrong. Her crimson scarf, blown by the wind, waved a bright pennon from the rock. Nobody else at Heathcroft wore such a scarf.
"Clare Duquesne, Clare Duquesne!" Miss Reeve's shrill voice was ripped to ribbons of sound by the wind.
Clare leant down, smiling benignly upon the furious lady on the path. "You called?" she inquired politely.
"What are you doing there? Come down! How dare you?"
"How dare I come down? Well, it does look rather steep. I'm not sure that we can this way," pondered Clare, her head on one side.