able thing has happened, mother. Miss Gifford has discovered
through Major Carew that a friend is in serious trouble. It has been
rather a shock."

"Dear me. Yes! It would be. Perhaps you would like to go to your
room, my dear. I'm tired myself, and shall be glad to get to bed. I am
sure you must wish to be alone. Shall we go?"

Claire said good night to the two men and went wearily upstairs. At
this moment even her own inward happiness failed to console. When
contrasted with her own fate, Cecil's seemed so cruelly unfair!

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE.

"NO!"

Sleep refused to come to Claire that night. She lay tossing on her bed
while the old clock in the corridor without struck hour after hour.

Two, three, four, and still she tossed, and turned, and again and again
asked herself the world-old question, "What shall I do? What shall I
do?" and shuddered at the thought of the disillusionment which was
coming to her poor friend.

What was her own duty in the matter? Obviously Cecil must be told the
truth; obviously she was the one to tell it. Would it be possible to
_write_? Inclination clamoured in favour of such a course. It would be
so much easier: it would obviate the necessity for a lacerating
interview. Would it not be easier for Cecil, also? Claire felt that if
positions had been reversed, she would crave above all things to be
alone, hidden from the eyes of even the most sympathising of friends;
but Cecil's nature was of a different type. Having heard the one
abhorrent fact, she would wish to probe further, to be told details, to
ask a score of trifling questions. However full a letter might be, she
would not be satisfied without an interview. "But I might write first,
and see her afterwards!" poor Claire said to herself. "It would not be
quite so bad, when she had got over the first shock. I could _not_ bear
to see her face..."

It was five o'clock before at last sleep came to drive away the haunting
questions, and when she woke it was to find her early tea had grown cold
on the table by her side, and to see on looking at her watch that it was
nearly ten o'clock. She dressed hurriedly and went downstairs to find
Mrs Fanshawe alone in the dining-room, reading the _Morning Post_. She
waved aside Claire's apologies for her late appearance with easy good
nature. No one was _expected_ to be punctual at breakfast. It was
sheer tyranny to decree that visitors should get up at a definite