Claire had noticed that a new man had been present on that occasion, had bestowed on him one critical glance, decided with youthful arrogance: “Oh, quite old!” and promptly forgotten his existence, until an hour later, when, as she was sitting in the pavilion enjoying the luxury of a real English tea, the strange man and her mother had entered side by side. Claire summoned in imagination the picture of her mother as she had looked at that moment, slim and graceful in the simplest of white dresses, an untrimmed linen hat shading her charming face. She looked about twenty-five, and Claire was convinced that she knew as much, and that it was a mischievous curiosity to see her companion’s surprise which prompted her to lead the way across the floor, and formally introduce “My daughter!”

Mr Judge exhibited all the expected signs of bewilderment, but he made himself exceedingly amiable to the daughter, and it was not until a week later that it was discovered that he had concluded that the relationship must surely be “step,” when fresh explanations were made, and all the bewilderment came over again.

Since then, oh, since then, Claire told herself, there had been no getting away from the man! He was, it appeared, an Indian merchant spending a few months on the Continent, at the conclusion of a year’s leave. He had come to Brussels because of the presence of an old school friend—the same friend who was responsible for the introduction at the tennis club—but week after week passed by, and he showed no disposition to move on.

Now Brussels is a very gay and interesting little city, but when Paris looms ahead, and Berlin, Vienna, to say nothing of the beauties of Switzerland and the Tyrol, and the artistic treasures of Italy—well! it did seem out of proportion to waste six whole weeks in that one spot!

At the end of the last fortnight, too, Mr Judge declared that he was sick to death of hotels and lonely evenings in smoking rooms, and approached Madame Dupre with a view to joining the party at Villa Beau Séjour. Madame was delighted to receive him, but Claire Gifford told her mother resentfully that she considered Mr Judge’s behaviour “very cool.” How did he know that it would be pleasant for them to have him poking about morning, noon, and night?

“It isn’t our Pension, darling, and he is very nice to you,” Mrs Gifford had said in return, and as it was impossible to contradict either statement, Claire had tossed her head, and relapsed into silence.

For the first weeks 

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