re
intervals, and the mothers have apologised for the ordinary
conversation, and laboriously switched it on to books. I didn't want to
talk books. I wanted to discuss hats and dresses, and fashionable
intelligence, and sing comic songs, and play puss-in-the-corner, and be
generally giddy and riotous; but my presence cast a wet blanket over the
whole party, and we discussed Science and Art. Now I'm old and
resigned, but it's hard on the new hands. I think it was rather brutal
of your mother to let you come to London without taking the trouble of
getting _some_ introductions. Don't mind me saying so, do you?"

Claire smiled feebly.

"You have said it, anyhow! I know it must seem unkind to anyone who
does not know mother. She's really the kindest person in the world, but
she's very easy-going, and apt to believe that everything will happen
just as she wishes. She felt quite sure that Miss Farnborough and the
staff would supply me with a whirl of gaiety. There _was_ one lady, who
said she would write to a friend--"

Cecil groaned deeply.

"I know that friend. She comes from Sheffield. A dear kind friend who
would love to have you out on holidays. A friend who takes a special
interest in school-mistresses. A friend who gives such nice inter-est-
ing parties, and would certainly send you a card if she knew your
address. Was that it, my dear--was that the kind of friend?"

Cecil chuckled with triumph at the sight of Claire's lengthening jaw.
In truth there seemed something uncanny in so accurate a reproduction of
Mrs Fanshawe's description. Was there, indeed, no such person? Did
she exist purely as a dummy figure, to be dangled before the eyes of
credulous beginners? Claire sighed, and buried her last lingering hope;
and at that very moment the postman's rap sounded at the door, and a
square white envelope was handed in, addressed in feminine handwriting
to Miss Claire Gifford.

Claire tore it open, pulled forth a white card, gasped and flushed, and
tossed it across the table with a whoop of triumph.

"Raven, look at that! What do you think now of your melancholy croaks?"

Cecil picked up the card, inscribed with the orthodox printed lines,
beneath which a few words had been written.

Mrs Willoughby,
At Home
May 26th, 9 p.m.
Music.

"Have just received your address from Mrs Fanshawe. Shall hope to see
you to-morrow.--E.B.W."

Cecil screwed up her face in disparagement.

"Nine o'cloc