a narrow street lined with shops, and finally the station
itself, the clock over the entrance showing a bare four minutes to
spare.

The porter labelled the luggage, and trundled it down the platform.
Claire hurried through her business in the telegraph office, and ran
after him just as the train slowed down on the departure platform. One
carriage showed two empty corner places on the nearest side, Claire
opened the door, seated herself facing the engine, and spread her
impedimenta on the cushions. But few passengers had been waiting, for
this was one of the slowest trains in the day, but now at this last
moment there came the sound of running footsteps, a man's footsteps,
echoing in strong heavy beats. With a traveller's instinctive curiosity
Claire leant forward to watch the movements of this late comer, and
putting her head out of the window came face to face with Erskine
Fanshawe himself.

At sight of her he stopped short, at sight of him she stood up, blocking
the window from sight of the other occupants of the carriage; by a
certain defiance of pose, appearing to defend it also against his own
entrance. But he did not attempt to enter. Though he had been running,
it was his pallor, not his heat, which struck Claire in that first
moment. He was white, with the pallor of intense anger; the flash of
his eyes was like cold steel. He rested his hands on the sill of the
window, and looked up into her face.

"This is my mother's doing!"

It was a statement, not a question, and Claire made no reply. She stood
stiff and silent, while down the length of the platform sounded the
quick banging of doors.

"I got through sooner than I expected and went home to change. I did
not waste time in talking... I could guess what had happened. She made
it impossible for you to stay on?"

Still silence. The guard's whistle sounded shrilly. Erskine came a
step nearer. His white tense face almost touched her own.

"Claire!" he whispered breathlessly, "will you marry me?"

"Stand back there! Stand back!" cried an authoritative voice. The
wheels of the carriage rolled slowly forward. Claire bent forward, and
gave her answer in one incisive word--

"No!"

The wheels rolled faster and faster: left the station, whirled out into
the green, smiling plain.

CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR.

A RUPTURE.

In after days Claire often looked back upon that journey to London, and
tried to recall her own feelings, but invariabl