"Do you think so?" Clare was thoroughly interested. She was tickled at Alwynne's anxious tones. She always enjoyed her occasional bursts of responsibility. But she was nevertheless intrigued by Alwynne's hints. She had certainly not given her class its usual attention lately. To Louise she had scarcely spoken unofficially since term began; no opportunity had occurred, and she had been too busy to make one. Louise had returned a bundle of books to her on the opening day of the term, and had been bidden to fetch herself as many more as she chose. But Clare had been out when Louise had called. Clare, to tell the truth, had not once given a thought to Louise since Christmas Day. She had taken a trip to London with Alwynne soon after. The two had enjoyed themselves. The holidays had flown. But she had been glad to find her class radiantly awaiting her. She had found it much as usual. Alwynne's perturbation was the more intriguing. "Do you think so?" she repeated, with a lift of her eyebrows that reduced Alwynne's status to that of a Kindergarten pupil teacher. She enjoyed seeing her grow pink. "Of course, it's no affair of mine," said Alwynne aggrievedly. She went on with her drawing. Clare swung herself on to the low table and sat, skirts a-sway, gazing down at Alwynne's head, bent over its grotesques. There was a curl at the nape of the neck that fascinated her. It lay fine and shining like a baby's. She picked up a pencil and ran it through the tendril. Alwynne jumped. "Clare, leave me alone. You only think I'm impertinent." "Does she want a finger in the pie, then?" said Clare softly. "Poor old Alwynne!" The pencil continued its investigations. Alwynne tried not to laugh. She could never resist Clare's soft voice, as Clare very well knew. "I don't! I only thought----" "That Louise--your precious Louise----" "She's trying so awfully hard----" "Yes?" "She's overdoing it. The work's not so good. She's too keen, I think----" "Yes?" "I think----" "Yes, Alwynne?" "You won't be annoyed?" "That depends." "Then I can't tell you." "I think you can," said Clare levelly. Alwynne was silent. Clare took the paper from her and examined it. "You've a fantastic imagination, Alwynne. When did you dream those faces? Well--and what do you think? Be quick." "I think she's growing too fond of you," said Alwynne desperately. She faced Clare, red and apprehensive. She expected an outburst. But Clare never did what Alwynne expected her to do. "Is that all? Pooh!" said Clare lightly and began to laugh. She swung backwards, her finger-tips crooked round the edge of the table, her neat shoes peeping and disappearing beneath her skirts as she rocked herself. She regarded Alwynne with sly amusement. "So I've a bad influence, Alwynne? Is that the idea?" Alwynne protested redly. Clare continued unheeding.