. I want rest. I want some one to care for me, and take an
interest in what I do. Frank isn't perfect, I don't pretend that he is.
I wish to goodness he _would_ own up, and face the racket once for all,
but it's no use, he won't! Between ourselves I believe he thinks the
old man won't live much longer, and there will be no need to worry him
at all. Any way there it is, he won't tell at present, however much I
may beg, but he will marry me; he wants to be married in September, and
that proves that he _does_ care! He is looking out for a flat, and
picking up furniture. _We_ are picking up furniture," Cecil corrected
herself hastily. "I go in and ask the prices, and he sends his servants
the next week to do the bargaining. And there will be my clothes,
too... I'll pay you back in time, Claire, with ten per cent, interest
into the bargain, and perhaps when I'm a rich woman the time may come
when you will be glad to borrow from me!"

The prospect was not cheering, but the intention was good, and as such
had to be suitably acknowledged. Claire adjourned upstairs to consult
her cheque-book, and decided bravely that the drastic bargains could not
be afforded. Then, being a very human, and feminine young woman she
told herself that there could be no harm in going to look at the dresses
once more, just to convince herself that they were not so very drastic
after all, and lo! close inspection proved them even more drastic than
she had believed, and by the evening's delivery a choice specimen was
speeding by motor van to Laburnum Road.

On visiting days Claire went regularly to visit Sophie, who, by her own
account, was being treated to seventeen different cures at the same
time, and was too busy being rubbed, and boiled, and electrified, and
dosed, and put to bed in the middle of the afternoon, and awakened in
the middle of the night, to have any time to feel bored. She took a
keen interest also in her fellow patients, and was the confidante of
many tragic stories which made her own lot seem light in comparison.
Altogether she was more cheerful and hopeful than for months back, but
the nurses looked dubious, and could not be induced to speak of her
recovery with any certitude.

On the tenth of August, Claire packed her boxes with the aid of a very
mountain of tissue paper, and set forth on her journey. The train
deposited her at Hazlemere station, outside which Mrs Fanshawe was
waiting in a big cream car, smiling h