She rose and was going, when her mother called her back. "Clare! Wait till he is gone, at all events! Fancy, if he saw you!" "Oh! He won't see me! If he comes that way I'll go into the office and buy stamps." Clare went in and looked over the square board with its many little slips for the names of the guests. Some were on visiting cards and some were written in the large, scrawling, illiterate hand of the head waiter. Some belonged to people who were already gone. It looked well, in the little hotel, to have a great many names on the list. Some seconds passed before Clare found that of the new-comer. "Mr. Brook Johnstone." Brook was his first name, then. It was uncommon. She looked at it fixedly. There was no address on the small, neatly engraved card. While she was looking at it a door opened quietly behind her, in the opposite side of the corridor. She paid no attention to it for a moment; then, hearing no footsteps, she instinctively turned. Brook Johnstone was standing on the threshold watching her. She blushed violently, in her annoyance, for he could not doubt but that she was looking for his name. He saw and understood, and came forward naturally, with a smile. He had a stick in his hand. "That's me," he said, with a little laugh, tapping his card on the board with the head of his stick. "If I'd had an ounce of manners I should have managed to tell you who I was by this time. Won't you excuse me, and take this for an introduction? Johnstone--with an E at the end--Scotch, you know." "Thanks," answered Clare, recovering from her embarrassment. "I'll tell my mother." She hesitated a moment. "And that's us," she added, laughing rather nervously and pointing out one of the cards. "How grammatical we are, aren't we?" she laughed, while he stooped and read the name which chanced to be at the bottom of the board. "Well--what should one say? 'That's we.' It sounds just as badly. And you can't say 'we are that,' can you? Besides, there's no one to hear us, so it makes no difference. I don't suppose that you--you and Mrs. Bowring--would care to go for a walk, would you?" "No," answered Clare, with sudden coldness. "I don't think so, thank you. We are not great walkers." They went as far as the door together. Johnstone bowed and walked off, and Clare went back to her mother. "He caught me," she said, in a tone of annoyance. "You were quite right. Then he showed me his name himself, on the board. It's Johnstone--Mr. Brook Johnstone, with an E--he says that he is Scotch. Why--mother! Johnstone! How odd! That was the name of--" She stopped short and looked at her mother, who had grown unnaturally pale during the last few seconds. "Yes, dear. That was the name of my first husband." Mrs. Bowring spoke in a low voice, looking down at her work. But her hands trembled violently, and she was clearly making a great effort to control herself. Clare watched her anxiously, not at all understanding.