Alwynne, for all her eagerness, took more than her usual breathless ten minutes in reaching Clare Hartill's flat. Underneath her pleasure at seeing Clare again ran a little current of uneasiness. There was so much to be told, not only in deference to the intimacy of their relationship, but in order to procure the proof that had never before seemed necessary, that Roger's, and incidentally Elsbeth's, view of that relationship was wrong.... Clare, of course, was reserved, undemonstrative, not, Alwynne was prepared to admit, so kindly or considerate a companion as—well, as Roger.... But why it should therefore follow that Roger loved her better, and was more worthy—preposterous word—of her own love, Alwynne could not see.... Clare Hartill cared for her, had told her so, had—had not as yet proved it, because there had been no need of proof.... Alwynne could love for two.... But to-day she felt only an aching desire that Clare should realise the importance of what she had just done; should reward her sacrifice with little softenings and intimacies, some such signs as she had shown her in the earlier days of their friendship, of affection and sympathy.... She did not ask much, she told herself; if Clare were only a little kind, she should not miss Roger. Even as she so decided, her cheek flushing at the idea of Clare's kindness, at the possibility of a return to their earlier relationship, she saw suddenly, with flashlight distinctness, how much, even then, she should miss Roger, how great her sacrifice would still be.... She saw, as in a vision, the man and woman drowning in waste seas, and she herself at rescue work with room for one and one only in the boat beside her.... She felt herself torn by the agony of choice, knowing the while, that a year ago it had not been so; that a year ago she would have outstretched arms for Clare alone; that even now, Elsbeth, The Dears, all alike might drown in that dream sea, so long as Clare were saved.... She acknowledged, she exulted in the narrowness of her affection.... Clare before the world! But Clare before Roger? Clare safe and Roger drowning? She chuckled as it occurred to her that Roger would certainly be able to swim.... Yes, he would swim comfortably alongside and spare her the fantastic trouble of a choice.... Blessed old Roger!

As she passed the little kiosk at the corner of Friar's Lane, where a red-haired girl sat behind branches of white and mauve lilac, and high-piled mounds of violets, she hesitated and turned back. It was a breaking of unwritten rules, and Clare would give her no thanks, but to-day at least she would not scold.... She would say nothing, but how big her dear eyes would grow at sight of that armful of scented colour! She bought lavishly, and forgot to stay for change, for she was picturing her own arrival as she hurried on: the open door; the pell-mell of flowers and sunlight; Clare's smile; Clare's kiss. In spite of moods Clare could not do without her! She tore up the stairs and pealed the bell, with never another thought of Roger.

Clare was at her writing-table and had but a bare nod for Alwynne, as she stood in the doorway, flushed, smiling, expectant. The girl was accustomed to finding her preoccupied; there was a time, indeed, when there had been subtle flattery in the cavalier welcome, when the lack of ceremony had seemed but a proof of intimacy, and she would bide her time happily enough, exploring book-shelves, darning stockings, tiptoeing from parlour to pantry to refill vases and valet neglected plants, or, curled in the big arm-chair, would sketch upon imaginary canvases Clare's profile, dark against the sun-filled window, or stare half-hypnotised, at the twinkling diamond on her finger. But to-day, for the first time, Clare's reception of her jarred.

She sat down quietly, the flowers in a heap at her feet, her excitement subsiding and leaving her jaded and sorehearted. She felt herself disregarded, reduced to the level of an importunate schoolgirl.... She wondered how much longer Clare intended to write, and told herself, with a little, petulant shrug, that for two pins she would surprise Clare, wrench away her pen, take her by the shoulders and anger her into attention. Roger was right.... One could be too meek.... She rose with a little quiver of excitement, her irrepressible phantasy limning with lightning speed an imaginary Clare—a Clare beleaguered, with barriers down, a Clare with wide maternal arms, enclosing, comforting, sufficing....

The real Clare shifted in her seat and Alwynne sank back again. No, that was not the way to take Clare.... One must be patient, only patient, like Roger.... Clare would give all one needed, that was sure, but in her own time, her own way.... One must be patient....

She loosed her coat.... How close the room was.... She would have liked to fling open the window, but Clare always protested.... She heard Elsbeth's voice: "Fresh air? Her idea of fresh air is an electric fan." ... Queer, how those two jarred! But Elsbeth was not just....

Her head throbbed. Listlessly she picked up a spray of lilac and crushed it against her face. It was deliciously cool.... She supposed that the lilacs were out by now at Dene....

Tic, tac! Tic, tac! The tick of the clock would not keep time with the scratch of Clare's pen.... How stupid! Stupid, stu—pid, stu—pid, stu——

"Clare!" she cried desperately, "won't you even talk to me?"

Clare wrote on for a moment as if she had not heard her, finished her letter, blotted it, stamped and addressed the cover and wiped her pen deliberately; then she rose, smiling a little. She had been perfectly conscious of Alwynne's unrest.

"What is it?" she said. Alwynne flushed and gathered up her flowers.

"It's your birthday," she apologised. "Look, Clare, aren't they darlings? I know you hate the school fusses, but your own birthday is important. Must you go on writing? It ought to be a holiday. May I get vases? Clare, I've such heaps to tell you, heaps and heaps, only I can't if you stand and look at me from such a long way off. Won't you sit down and smell your lilacs and let me talk to you comfortably?"

With enormous daring she put her arm round Clare and drew her on to the sofa. Clare made no resistance, but she sat stiffly, unsupported, still smiling, her eyes glittering oddly. But the acquiescence was enough for Alwynne and she slid to the ground and sat there sorting her flowers, her face level with Clare's knee, radiant and fearless again.

"I wonder what you will say? It's about Roger."

Clare raised her eyebrows.

"Oh, Clare, don't you know? I wrote such a lot about him from Dene."

"I am to remember every detail of your epistles?"

Alwynne looked up quaintly—

"I suppose there is a good deal to wade through. There always seems so much to say to you. Do you really mind?"

"You remind me that I've letters to finish."

Alwynne looked at the clock in sudden alarm.

"Am I awfully early? You did expect me to tea?"

"And you're never on the late side, are you?" Clare was still smiling, but her tone stung.

Alwynne got up quickly.

"I'm very sorry. Don't bother about me. I'll arrange these things while you finish. I didn't know you were really busy."

Clare put out her hand to the table behind her.

"I'm not busy. It seems one mayn't tease you since you've stayed at Dene."

Alwynne's eyes flashed.

"That's not fair. It's only that—that sometimes now you tease with needles—you used to tease with straws."

"So I had better not tease at all?"

"You know I don't mean that."

Clare lifted an opened parcel from the table. Alwynne recognised it and beamed. So Clare was pleased!

"If I tease with needles," she smoothed the paper and began to straighten the little heap of knotted string, "it's because you annoy me so often. Why did you send me this, Alwynne?"

She shrugged her shoulders.

"It was your birthday."

"I hate birthdays."

"I know." She spoke flatly, a lump in her throat. She might have known and saved herself her trouble and her pleasure.... She thought of the weeks of careful work and her delight in it; of the little sacrifices; the early rising; the walks with Roger curtailed and foregone.... Everybody had admired it, even Elsbeth had been sure that Clare would be charmed.... But Clare was angry.... Perhaps it was only that Clare did not understand.... She roused herself.

"Clare, it's different. Don't you remember?"

Clare gave no sign. She had disentangled the string and was retying it with elaborate care. Alwynne spoke with eyes fixed upon the dexterous fingers—

"You challenged me, don't you remember, Clare? When Marion showed us the things she was making for her sister's trousseau? And you said, would I ever have the patience, let alone my clumsy fingers? And I said I could, and you said you would wear all I made. And you did laugh at me so. So I thought I'd surprise you, and Elsbeth taught me the pillow-lace, and I was frightfully careful. It's taken months and months, and you love lace, and oh, Clare! I thought you would be a little bit pleased."

Her lip quivered; she was very childlike in her eagerness and disappointment.

"Did you think I should wear it?"

Alwynne dimpled.

"It's your size, Clare. Wouldn't you just try it?"

Clare looked at her inscrutably.

"You've taken great pains," she said. "I've been pleased to see it. But you've shown it to me and I've told you that you've learned to work well, so it has fulfilled its purpose, hasn't it? And now you'd better take it back with you. I'm sure you will be able to use it."

She held out the neatly fastened package.

Alwynne's face hardened. She put her hands behind her back.

"I shall do nothing of the kind," she said.

Clare did not seem ruffled.

"Of course you will. And you'll look very pretty in it." She smiled amiably.

But Alwynne's face did not relax.

"I won't take it back. I gave it to you. I made it to give you pleasure. If you don't want it, burn it, give it to your maid, throw it away. Do you think I care what becomes of it? But I won't take it back. That is an insult. You say that to hurt me."

"You'll take it back because I wish you to."

"I won't. You shouldn't wish me to."

"You know I dislike presents."

"I never labelled it a present in my mind. You talk as if we were strangers."

"Perhaps, then," murmured Clare, still smiling, "I dislike the hint that you consider my wardrobe inadequate."

Alwynne caught her breath. For the last ten minutes she had been growing angry, not in her usual summer-tempest fashion, but with a slow, cold anger that was pain. She felt Clare's attitude an indelicacy—the discussion a degradation. She sickened at its pettiness. She seemed to be defending, not herself, but some shrinking, weaponless creature, from attack and outrage.... The fight had been sudden, desperate; but at Clare's last sentence she knew herself vanquished, knew that the first love of her life had been most mortally wounded.

She turned blindly. She had no tears, no regret: her sensations were purely physical. She was numbed, breathless, choking, conscious only of an overpowering desire for fresh air, for escape into the open. But first she must say good-bye, head erect, betraying nothing ... say good-bye to the dark figure that was no longer Clare.... A sentence from a child's book danced through her mind in endless repetition, They rubbed her eyes with the ointment, and she saw it was only a stock. Of course! And now she must go away quickly.... She should choke if she could not get into the air....

She heard her own voice, flat and tiny—

"Have you finished with me? May I go now?"

Clare's laugh was quite unforced.

"You're not to go yet!"

"Yes. Yes—I think so. May I go now, please?"

She had retreated to the door and clung to the handle looking back with blank eyes.

"But, you foolish child, you've had no tea. Why are you running away? Are you going to spoil my afternoon?"

She lied blunderingly, mad to escape.

"But I told you I couldn't stay long. Because—because of Elsbeth. She's to meet me. I only ran up for a minute. Really, I have to go." She made a tremendous effort: "I—I can come back later."

Clare shrugged her shoulders.

"Oh, very well. Will you come to supper?"

Alwynne forced a smile.

"Yes." She crossed the threshold, Clare watching from the doorway.

"I shall wait for you, we'll have a lazy evening. Supper at eight."

There was no answer. Alwynne was stumbling down into the darkness of the stairs and did not seem to hear. Clare turned back into her flat, hesitated uneasily, and came out again. She leaned far over the balustrade, peering down.

"Alwynne!" she cried. "Alwynne! Wait a moment, Alwynne!"

But Alwynne was gone, gone beyond recall.