of her acquaintance with Mr Judge, Claire had thoroughly enjoyed his attentions. It was agreeable to know a man who had a habit of noting your wishes, and then setting to work to bring them about forthwith, and who was also delightfully extravagant as regards flowers, and seemed to grow chocolates in his coat pockets. It was only when he spoke of moving to the Pension, and her girl friends at the tennis club began to tease, roll meaning eyes, and ask when she was to be congratulated, that she took fright.

Did people really think that she was going to marry Mr Judge?

Lately things had moved on apace, and as a result of the unwelcome revelations of the morning’s post, Claire was to-day asking herself a different question. She was no longer occupied with other people; she was thinking of herself... “Am I going to marry Mr Judge? Oh, good gracious, is that My Husband sitting over there, and have I got to live with him every day, as long as we both shall live?”

She shuddered at the thought, but in truth there was nothing to shudder at in Robert Judge’s appearance. He was a man of forty, bronzed, and wiry, with agreeable if not regular features. Round his eyes the skin was deeply furrowed, but the eyes themselves were bright and youthful, and the prevailing expression was one of sincerity and kindliness. He wore a loose grey tweed suit, with a soft-coloured shirt which showed a length of brown neck. The fingers of his right band were deeply stained with tobacco. During déjeuner he carried on a conversation with his right-hand companion, in exceedingly bad French, but ever and anon he glanced across the table as though his thoughts were not on his words. Once, on looking up suddenly, Claire found his eyes fixed upon herself, with a strained, anxious look, and her heart quickened as she looked, then sank down heavy as lead.

“It’s coming!” she said to herself. “It’s coming! There’s no running away. I’ll have to stay, and see it out. Oh, why can’t I be French, and sensible? I ought to be thankful to marry such a kind, good man, and be able to give mother a comfortable home!”

But as a matter of fact she was neither glad nor thankful. Despite her French training, the English instinct survived and clamoured for liberty, for independence. “It’s my own life. If I marry at all, I want to choose the man for no other reason than that I love him; not as a duty, and to please somebody else!” Then she glanced at her mother sitting by her side, slim, and graceful, with the little air of pathos and helplessness which even strangers 

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