"That must stop. The standard's too high for trifling. And one or two of them are weak as it is. Especially Louise. Isn't she? Don't you coach her for the grammar? How is her extra work getting on, by the way? Like a house on fire, I suppose?"

"Not altogether." Alwynne looked uneasy.

"What?" Clare looked incredulous.

"She's the problem," said Alwynne.

She had a piece of paper on the table before her and was drawing fantastic profiles as she spoke, sure sign of perturbation with Alwynne, as Clare knew.

"Well?" demanded Clare, after an interval.

Alwynne paused, pencil hovering over an empty eyesocket. She seemed nervous, opened her lips once or twice and closed them again.

"What's wrong?" Clare prompted her.

"Nothing's wrong exactly." Alwynne flushed uncomfortably. "After all, you've seen her in cla.s.s. Her work is as good as usual?"

"I think so. Her last essay was a little exotic, by the bye, not quite as natural--but you corrected them. I was so busy."

"You don't think she's getting too keen, working too hard?" Alwynne's tone was tentative.

"Do you think so?" Clare was thoroughly interested. She was tickled at Alwynne's anxious tones. She always enjoyed her occasional bursts of responsibility. But she was nevertheless intrigued by Alwynne's hints.

She had certainly not given her cla.s.s its usual attention lately. To Louise she had scarcely spoken unofficially since term began; no opportunity had occurred, and she had been too busy to make one. Louise had returned a bundle of books to her on the opening day of the term, and had been bidden to fetch herself as many more as she chose. But Clare had been out when Louise had called. Clare, to tell the truth, had not once given a thought to Louise since Christmas Day. She had taken a trip to London with Alwynne soon after. The two had enjoyed themselves.

The holidays had flown. But she had been glad to find her cla.s.s radiantly awaiting her. She had found it much as usual. Alwynne's perturbation was the more intriguing.

"Do you think so?" she repeated, with a lift of her eyebrows that reduced Alwynne's status to that of a Kindergarten pupil teacher. She enjoyed seeing her grow pink.

"Of course, it's no affair of mine," said Alwynne aggrievedly. She went on with her drawing.

Clare swung herself on to the low table and sat, skirts a-sway, gazing down at Alwynne's head, bent over its grotesques. There was a curl at the nape of the neck that fascinated her. It lay fine and shining like a baby's. She picked up a pencil and ran it through the tendril. Alwynne jumped.

"Clare, leave me alone. You only think I'm impertinent."

"Does she want a finger in the pie, then?" said Clare softly. "Poor old Alwynne!" The pencil continued its investigations.

Alwynne tried not to laugh. She could never resist Clare's soft voice, as Clare very well knew.

"I don't! I only thought----"

"That Louise--your precious Louise----"

"She's trying so awfully hard----"

"Yes?"

"She's overdoing it. The work's not so good. She's too keen, I think----"

"Yes?"

"I think----"

"Yes, Alwynne?"

"You won't be annoyed?"

"That depends."

"Then I can't tell you."

"I think you can," said Clare levelly.

Alwynne was silent. Clare took the paper from her and examined it.

"You've a fantastic imagination, Alwynne. When did you dream those faces? Well--and what do you think? Be quick."

"I think she's growing too fond of you," said Alwynne desperately.

She faced Clare, red and apprehensive. She expected an outburst. But Clare never did what Alwynne expected her to do.

"Is that all? Pooh!" said Clare lightly and began to laugh. She swung backwards, her finger-tips crooked round the edge of the table, her neat shoes peeping and disappearing beneath her skirts as she rocked herself.

She regarded Alwynne with sly amus.e.m.e.nt.

"So I've a bad influence, Alwynne? Is that the idea?"

Alwynne protested redly. Clare continued unheeding.

"Well, it's a novel one, anyhow. Could you indicate exactly how my blighting effect is produced? Don't mind me, you know." Then, with a chuckle: "Oh, you delicious child!"

Alwynne was silent.

"Tell me all about it, Alwynne dear!" cooed Clare.

Alwynne shrugged her shoulders with a curiously helpless gesture.

"I can't," she said. "I thought I could--but I can't. You don't help me.

I was worried over Louise. I thought--I think she alters. I think she gets a strained look. I know she thinks about you all the time. I thought--but, of course, if you see nothing, it's my fancy. There's nothing definite, I know. If you don't know what I mean----"

"I don't!" said Clare shortly. "Do you know yourself?"

"No!" said Alwynne. She searched Clare's face wistfully. "I just thought perhaps--she was too fond of you--I can't put it differently. I'm a fool! I wish I hadn't said anything."

"So do I," said Clare gravely.

"I didn't mean to interfere: it wasn't impertinence, Clare," said Alwynne, her cheeks flaming.

Clare hesitated. She was annoyed at Alwynne's unnecessary display of insight, yet tickled by her penetration, not displeased by the jealousy which, as it seemed to her, must be at the root of the protest. Alwynne had evidently not forgotten her chilly Christmas afternoon.... Louise, as obviously, had talked.... There must have been some small degree of friction for Alwynne to complain of Louise.... Curiously, it never occurred to Clare that Alwynne's remarks hid no motive, that Alwynne was genuinely anxious and meant exactly what she had said, or tried to say. Possibly in Alwynne's simplicity lay her real attraction for Clare.

It made her as much of a sphinx to Clare as Clare was to her.