she said decisively. "Shall I come with you?" This to the maid, complacently the centre of attention.

But the maid preferred to fetch her mother. "Her mother lived quite close, miss. If Miss 'Artill could get on----"

"She can't do any cooking with that hand," said Alwynne to Clare, more in decision than appeal, and Clare acquiescing, she fetched hat and coat, manipulated hatpins, and bundled the girl forth.

She returned to the kitchen to find Miss Hartill, skirts clutched high, eyeing the crowded table with distaste, and prodding with a toasting-fork at the half-prepared meal.

"Isn't it disgusting? How these people bleed! I can't stand a mess!

Really, I'm very much obliged to you, Miss Durand for seeing to Bagot.

I'm no good at that sort of thing. I hate touching people. You don't think it was a bad cut, though?"

"It must have hurt! She won't be able to use her hand for a day or two."

Clare rubbed her nose peevishly. She had a comical air of resenting the necessity for concerning herself with her own domestic arrangements.

"Well, what am I to do? And I loathe charwomen. She might at least have got lunch first!"

"The meat's cooked, anyhow," said Alwynne hopefully, drawing forth a congealing dishful.

Clare shivered.

"Take it away! It's all over Bagot."

"I don't think it is." Alwynne examined it cautiously.

Clare gave her a short laugh.

"Anyhow, it doesn't appeal any more. Never mind, Miss Durand, I shall manage--I mustn't keep you."

Alwynne disregarded the hint. She seemed preoccupied.

"There aren't any eggs, I suppose," she ventured diffidently.

Clare flung out vague hands.

"Heaven knows! It's Bagot's business. Why?"

"Because," Alwynne had crossed the room and was struggling with a stiff cupboard door, "Elsbeth says I'm a fool at cooking (Elsbeth's my aunt, you know), but I can make omelets----" The door gave suddenly and Alwynne fell forward into the dark pantry. There was a clatter as of scattered bread-pans. She soon emerged, however, floury but serene.

"Yes! There are some! It wouldn't take ten minutes, Miss Hartill. That is--if----" she sought delicately for a tactful phrase: "if you would perhaps like to go away and read. If any one stands about and watches--you know what I mean----"

"Are you proposing to cook my lunch?" Clare demanded.

"Of course, if you don't like omelets," said Alwynne demurely.

Clare laughed outright.

"I do--I do. All right, Miss Durand, I'm too hungry to refuse. But I see through it, you know. It's to cry quits!"

Alwynne broke in indignantly--

"It isn't! It's the _amende honorable_--at least, if it doesn't scorch."

"All right, I accept it!" Clare pacified her; then, as she left the kitchen, "Miss Durand?"

"Yes, Miss Hartill?"

"Are you going to make one for Miss Vigers?"

Alwynne's face fell.

"I'd forgotten Miss Vigers."

Clare twinkled.

"Perhaps--if it doesn't scorch--I'll see what I can do," she promised her.

The lunch was a success. Alwynne, dishing up, had her hat ordered off her head, and was soon sharing the omelet and marvelling at herself for being where she was, and Clare, for her part, found herself enjoying her visitor as much as her meal.

Clare Hartill led a sufficiently solitary life. She was a woman of feverish friendships and sudden ruptures. Always the cleverest and most restless of her circle, she usually found her affinities as unable to satisfy her demands on their intellect as on their emotions.

Disillusionment would be swift and final: Clare never forgave a bore.

Gradually it came to pa.s.s that intercourse she so carefully fostered with her elder pupils became her absorbing and satisfying interest. She plumed herself on her independence of social amenities, did not guess, would not have admitted, that her pleasure in a chance table companion had its flavour of pathos. It was enough to acknowledge to herself that Alwynne Durand, with her enthusiasms, her incoherencies, and her capacities had certainly caught her difficult fancy. She liked the girl's manner; its compound of shyness and audacity, deference and independence pleased her sophisticated taste. She found her racy and original, and, in the exertion of drawing her out, was herself at her best. A brilliant talker, she chose to listen, and soon heard all there was to hear of Alwynne's short history; of her mother's sister, Elsbeth Loveday (Clare p.r.i.c.ked up her ears at the name), who had reared her from babyhood; of her schooldays; her crude young likes and dislikes; her hero-worships and pa.s.sionate, vague ambitions. Clare knew it all by heart, had heard the tale from more pairs of lips than she could remember, for more years than she cared to count. But Alwynne, nevertheless, told it in a way of her own that appealed to Clare and interested her anew. She told herself that the girl was worth cultivating; and what with apt comments, apter silences, and the half-finished phrases and abrupt noddings of perfect comprehension, contrived to make Alwynne think her the most sympathetic person she had ever had the fortune to meet. Indeed, they pleased each other so well that when Alwynne, towards tea-time, made an unwilling move, Clare was as unwilling, for her part, to let her go.

"It was certainly a most excellent omelet," she said, as she sped her from the door. "I suppose you won't come and cook me another to-night?"

Alwynne took her at her word.

"I will! Of course I will! Would you like me to, really? I will! I'd love to!"

Clare laughed.

"Oh, I was only in fun. Whatever would your aunt say?"

"She wouldn't mind," began Alwynne eagerly.

Clare temporised.

"But your work? Haven't you any work?"

Alwynne overwhelmed her.

"That's all right! It isn't much! I'll sit up. I wish you'd let me. I would love to. You must have some one to cook your supper for you, mustn't you?"

"Well, of course, if you'd really like to----" Clare hesitated between jest and earnest.

But Alwynne was wholly in earnest.

"I'll come. Thank you very much indeed," said Alwynne, eyes sparkling.