"You were quite late upon the lawn," said the inexorable Clara.
"Yes, I was rather. So were you. Have you anything to tell me?" She
broke away into her merry musical laugh.
"I was chatting with Mr. Westmacott."
"And I was chatting with Mr. Denver. By the way, Clara, now tell me
truly, what do you think of Mr. Denver? Do you like him? Honestly now!"
"I like him very much indeed. I think that he is one of the most
gentlemanly, modest, manly young men that I have ever known. So now,
dear, have you nothing to tell me?" Clara smoothed down her sister's
golden hair with a motherly gesture, and stooped her face to catch the
expected confidence. She could wish nothing better than that Ida should
be the wife of Harold Denver, and from the words which she had overheard
as they left the lawn that evening, she could not doubt that there was
some understanding between them.
But there came no confession from Ida. Only the same mischievous smile
and amused gleam in her deep blue eyes.
"That grey foulard dress----" she began.
"Oh, you little tease! Come now, I will ask you what you have just asked
me. Do you like Harold Denver?"
"Oh, he's a darling!"
"Ida!"
"Well, you asked me. That's what I think of him. And now, you dear old
inquisitive, you will get nothing more out of me; so you must wait and
not be too curious. I'm going off to see what papa is doing." She sprang
to her feet, threw her arms round her sister's neck, gave her a final
squeeze, and was gone. A chorus from Olivette, sung in her clear
contralto, grew fainter and fainter until it ended in the slam of a
distant door.
But Clara Walker still sat in the dim-lit room with her chin upon her
hands, and her dreamy eyes looking out into the gathering gloom. It
was the duty of her, a maiden, to play the part of a mother--to guide
another in paths which her own steps had not yet trodden. Since her
mother died not a thought had been given to herself, all was for her
father and her sister. In her own eyes she was herself very plain, and
she knew that her manner was often ungracious when she would most wish
to be gracious. She saw her face as the glass reflected it, but she did
not see the changing play of expression which gave it its charm--the
infinite pity, the sympathy, the sweet womanliness which drew towards
her all who were in doubt and in trouble, even as poor slow-moving
Charles Westmacott had been drawn to her that night.