d of you. I--I am so
completely taken by surprise that I hardly know--I shall have to think."

"Nonsense, my dear; what is there to think about? You have no other
engagement, and you need a change. Incidentally also _I_ want a
companion. You would be doing me a good turn as well as yourself. I'm
sure your mother would wish it!"

No doubt about that! Claire smiled to herself as she realised how Mrs
Judge would rejoice over the visit; turning one swallow into a summer,
and in imagination beholding her daughter plunged into a very vortex of
gaiety. She was still smiling, still considering, when Janet came
strolling across the room, and laid her hand affectionately on Mrs
Fanshawe's shoulder.

"I haven't had a word with you all afternoon! Such a rush of people.
You had tea comfortably, I hope: and you, too--Claire!" There was just
a suspicion of hesitation before the Christian name.

"I have just been asking Miss Gifford to take pity on my loneliness for
part of August. She is not knee-deep in engagements, as you are, my
dear, and that precious son of mine; so we are going to amuse each
other, and see how much entertainment we can squeeze out of the
countryside!"

"But I haven't--I didn't--I'm not sure," stammered Claire, acutely
conscious of the hardening of Janet's face, but once again Mrs Fanshawe
waved aside her objections.

"But _I_ am sure! It's all settled, my dear--all but the day. Put your
address on this silly little tablet, and I'll write as soon as I've
looked over my dates. Now, Janet, I'm ready for a chat. Take me out to
the balcony, away from this crowd."

"And I must go, I think. I'll say good-bye." Claire held out her hand
to the daughter of the house. "I hope you may have a delightful
summer."

"Oh, thanks so much. Oh, yes, yes, I'm quite sure I will," Janet
answered mechanically. She touched Claire's hand with her fingers, and
turned hastily aside.

CHAPTER NINETEEN.

ERSKINE FANSHAWE'S HOME.

Claire dreaded Mary Rhodes' curiosity on the subject of her proposed
visit, but in effect there was none forthcoming. Cecil was too much
engrossed in her own affairs to feel anything but a passing interest.

"Some one you met at the Willoughbys'? Only the old lady? Rather you
than me! Nice house though, I suppose; gardens, motors, that kind of
thing. Dull, but luxurious. Perhaps you'll stay on permanently as her
companion."

"That," Claire said emphatically, "will never