The Independence of Claire Part 12

She knew a momentary fear lest he should believe she was fis.h.i.+ng for a compliment, and give the ordinary ba.n.a.l reply; but he looked at her with a grave scrutiny, and asked quietly--

"Was that one of the frocks which went astray?"

"Yes! All of it. It wasn't even divided in half."

"It was a good thing the box turned up!" he said; and there, after all, was the compliment, but so delicately inferred that the most fastidious taste could not object.

With the finis.h.i.+ng of the soup came the first reference to Claire's work, for the Captain's casual "Do you care for anything solid, or would you prefer a sweet?" evoked a round-eyed stare of dismay.

"Oh, _please_!" cried Claire deeply. "I want to go straight through.

I've been living on mutton and cabbage for over two months, and cooking suppers on a chafing-dish. I looked forward to supper as part of the treat!"

The plain face lightened into a delightful smile.

"That's all right!" he cried. "Now we know where we are. I hadn't much dinner myself, so I'm quite game. Let us study the book of the words."

A _menu_ lay on the table, a square white card emblazoned with many golden words. Captain Fanshawe drew his chair nearer, and ran his finger down the list, while Claire bent forward to signify a yea or nay.

Every delicacy in season and out of season seemed to find its place on that list, which certainly justified Master Reginald's eulogy of his mother's "good feeds." Claire found it quite a serious matter to decide between so many good things, and even with various curtailments, made rather out of pride than inclination, the meal threatened to last some considerable time.

Well! there was obvious satisfaction in the manner in which Captain Fanshawe delivered his orders, and for herself, she had been dignified and self-denying; she had resolutely shut the door between this man and herself, and devoted herself to work, and now, since fate had thrown him in her way for a chance hour, she could enjoy herself with a light mind.

It was good to talk to a man again, to hear a deep masculine voice, to look at a broad strong frame. Putting aside all question of love and marriage, the convent life is no more satisfying than the monastic.

Each s.e.x was designed by G.o.d to be the complement of the other. Each must suffer from lack of the other's companions.h.i.+p.

"I arrived just as you began your performance," Captain Fanshawe informed her. "It was a great 'draw.' Everybody had crowded forward to listen. It was only towards the end of your second--er--how exactly should one express it?--_morceau_, that I managed to get into seeing line. It was a surprise! Have you known the Willoughbys long?"

Claire looked at him blankly.

"I never saw them before to-night. Your mother wrote to ask them if they would send me a card."

"Oh!" Captain Fanshawe was certainly surprised, and Claire mentally snubbed herself because at the bottom of her heart there had lain a suspicion that perhaps--just perhaps--he had come to-night in the hope of meeting his acquaintance of the railway station. This was not the case; no thought of her had been in his mind. Probably until the moment of meeting he had forgotten her existence. Never mind! They _had_ met, and he was agreeable and friendly. Now for a delightful half-hour...

"That was a good thought of the _mater's_. You will like them. They are delightful people. Just the people you ought to know as a stranger in town. How goes the school teaching, by the way? As well as you expected?"

Claire deliberated, with pursed lips.

"No. I expected so much; I always do. But much better than other people expected for me. Theoretically it's a fine life. There are times when it seems that nothing could be finer. But--"

"But what?"

"I don't think it's quite satisfying, as a _whole_ life!"

"Does anyone suppose it is?"

"They try to. They have to. For most teachers there is so little else."

The waiter handed plates of lobster mayonnaise, and Captain Fanshawe said quietly--

"Tell me about the times when the work seems fine."

"Ah--many times! It depends on one's own mood and health, because, of course, the circ.u.mstances are always the same. There are mornings when one looks round a big cla.s.s-room and sees all the girls' faces looking upwards, and it gives one quite a thrilling sense of power and opportunity. That is what the heaven-born teacher must feel every time.--'Here is the fresh virgin soil, and mine is the joy of planting the right seed! Here are the women of the future, the mothers of the race. For this hour they are mine. What I say, they must hear. They will listen with an attention which even their parents cannot gain. The words which I speak this morning may bear fruit in many lives.' That's the ideal att.i.tude, but the ordinary human woman has other mornings when all she feels is--'Oh, dear me, six hours of this! And what's the use?

Everything I batter in to-day will be forgotten by to-morrow. What's the ideal anyway in teaching French verbs? I want to go to bed.'"

They laughed together, but Captain Fanshawe sobered quickly, and his brow showed furrows of distress. Claire looked at him and said quickly--

"Do you mind if we don't talk school? I am Cinderella to-night, wearing fine clothes and supping in state. I'd so much rather talk Cinderella to match."

"Certainly, certainly. Just as you wish." Lolling back in his chair, Captain Fanshawe adopted an air of _blase_ indifference, and drawled slowly, "Quite a good winter, isn't it? Lots going on. Have you been to the Opera lately?"

"Oh dear!" thought Claire with a gush, "how refres.h.i.+ng to meet a grown- up man who can pretend like a child!" She simpered, and replied artificially, "Oh, yes--quite often. The dear d.u.c.h.ess is _so_ kind; her box is open to me whenever I choose to go. Wonderful scene, isn't it?

All those tiers rising one above another. Do you ever look up at the galleries? Such funny people sit there--men in tweed suits; girls in white blouses. Who _are_ they, should you think? Clerks and typists and school-mistresses, and people of that persuasion?"

"Possibly, I dare say. One never knows. They look quite respectable and quiet, don't you know!"

The twinkle was alight in Captain Fanshawe's eyes. It shone more brightly still as he added, "Everybody turns up sooner or later in the d.u.c.h.ess's box. Have you happened to meet--the Prince!"

For a moment Claire groped for the connection, then dimpled merrily.

"Not yet. No! but I am hoping--"

The waiter approached with plates of chicken in aspic, and more rolls of crisp browned bread. Claire sent a thought to Cecil finis.h.i.+ng a box of sardines, with her book propped up against the cocoa jug. The Cinderella _role_ was forgotten while her eyes roved around, studying the silver dishes on the various tables.

"When you were a small boy, Captain Fanshawe, did you go out to parties?"

Captain Fanshawe knitted his brows. This charming girl was a little difficult to follow conversationally; she leapt from one subject to another with disconcerting agility.

"Er--pardon me! Is that question put to me in my--er--private, or imaginary capacity?"

"Private, of course. But naturally you did. Did you have pockets?"

"To the best of my remembrance I was disguised as a mids.h.i.+pmite, with white duck trousers of a prodigious width. They used to crackle, I remember. There was room for a dozen pockets."

Claire laid her arms on the table, so that her face drew nearer his own.

Her voice fell to a stage whisper--

"Did you--ever--take--something--home?"

The Captain threw back his head with a peal of laughter.

"Miss Gifford, what a question! I was an ordinary human boy. _Of course_ I did. And sat on my spoils in the carriage going back, and was scolded for spoiling my clothes. I had a small brother at home."

"Well--I have a small friend! She has letters after her name, and is very learned and clever, but she has a _very_ sweet tooth. Do you think, perhaps--in this bag--"

"Leave it to me!" he said firmly, and when the waiter next appeared, he received an order to bring more bon-bons--plenty of bon-bons--a selection of all the small dainties in silver dishes.

"He thinks I _am_ having a feast!" Claire said demurely, as she watched the progress of selection; then she met Erskine Fanshawe's eyes, and nodded in response to an unspoken question, "And I _am_! I'm having a lovely time!"

"I wish it were possible that you could oftener--"

"Well, who knows? A week ago I had made up my mind that nothing exciting would ever happen again, and then this invitation arrived.