considered it the height of bad manners for a maid to dare to be sea-sick; but being unused to do anything for herself, gratefully allowed Claire to lead the way, reply to the queries of custom-house officials, secure a corner of a first-class compartment of the waiting train, and bid an attendant bring a cup of tea before the ordinary breakfast began.

Mason refused any refreshment, but Mrs Fanshawe momentarily regained her vigour, and was all that was gracious in her acknowledgment of Claire’s help. The quizzical eyes roved over the girl’s face and figure, and evidently approved what they saw, and Claire, smiling back, was conscious of an answering attraction. Thoughtless and domineering as was her behaviour to her inferior, there was yet something in the old lady’s personality which struck an answering chord in the girl’s heart. She was enough of a physiognomist to divine the presence of humour and generosity, combined with a persistent cheerfulness of outlook. The signs of physical age were unmistakable, but the spirit within was young, young as her own!

The mutual scrutiny ended in a mutual laugh, which was the last breaking of the ice.

“My dear,” cried Mrs Fanshawe, “you must excuse my bad manners! You are so refreshing to look at after all those horrors on the boat that I can’t help staring. And you’ve been so kind! Positively I don’t know how I should have survived without you. Will you tell me your name? I should like to know to whom I am indebted for so much help.”

“My name is Claire Gifford.”

“Er—yes?” Plainly Mrs Fanshawe felt the information insufficient. “Gifford! I knew some Giffords. Do you belong to the Worcestershire branch?”

Claire hitched her shoulders in the true French shrug.

“Sais pas! I have no English relations nearer than second cousins, and we have lived abroad so much that we are practically strangers. My father died when I was a child. I went to school in Paris, and for the last few years my mother and I have made our headquarters in Brussels. She married again, only yesterday, and is going to live in Bombay.”

Mrs Fanshawe arched surprised brows.

“And you are staying behind?”

“Yes. They asked me to go. Mr Judge is very kind. He is my—er—stepfather!” Claire shrugged again at the strangeness of that word. “He gave me the warmest of invitations, 

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