r the moment only one fact stood out to the
exclusion of every other, and that was that Janet did not wish her to be
present at the "At Home." Mrs Willoughby had sent the invitation, but
Janet had supplemented it by another, which could not be refused. "I
would rather have you to myself." How was it possible to refuse an
invitation couched in such terms? How could one answer with any show of
civility, "I should prefer to come with the crowd?"

Claire carried the letter up to her cold bedroom, and sat down to do a
little honest thinking.

"It's very difficult to understand what one really wants! We deceive
ourselves as much as we do other people... Why am I so hideously
depressed? I liked going to the `At Home,' I liked dressing up, and
driving through the streets, and seeing the flowers and the dresses, and
having the good supper; but, if that were all, I believe I'd prefer the
whole day with Janet. I suppose, really, it's Captain Fanshawe that's
at the bottom of it. I want to meet him, I thought I should meet him,
and now it's over. I shan't be asked again when there's a chance of his
coming. Janet doesn't want me. She's not jealous, of course--that's
absurd--but she wants to keep him to herself, and she imagines somehow
that I should interfere--"

Imagination pictured Janet staring with puzzled, uneasy eyes across the
tables in the dining-room, of Janet drearily examining the piled-up
presents in the boudoir, and then, like a flash of light, showed the
picture of another face, now eager, animated, admiring, again grave and
wistful. "Is your address still the Grand Hotel?--_My_ address is still
the Carlton Club."

"Ah, well, well!" acknowledged Claire to her heart, "we _did_ like each
other. We did love being together, and he remembered me; he sent me the
clock when he was away. But it's all over now. That was our last
chance, and it's gone. He'll go to the At Home, and Mrs Willoughby
will tell him I was asked, but preferred to come when they were alone,
and he'll think it was because I wanted to avoid him, and--and, oh,
goodness, goodness, goodness! how _miserable_ I shall feel sitting here
all Thursday evening, imagining all that is going on! Oh, mother,
mother, your poor little girl is _so_ lonesome! Why did you go so far
away?"

Claire put her head down on the dressing-table, and shed a few tears, a
weakness bitterly regretted, for like all weaknesses the consequences
wrought fresh trouble.