"It's--it's like--there were some just like this in a shop at Saint Moritz." "They are all much alike, don't you think?" "I suppose they are. Yes--in a way. Some are much better than others. This is one of the best--" "Yes, it is. It keeps beautiful time. I had it in the sitting-room, but Miss Rhodes objected to the noise." "Was it in Saint Moritz that you bought it?" "I didn't buy it. It was a present." That finished the cross-questioning, since politeness forbade that Janet should go a step further and ask the name of the friend, which was what she was obviously longing to do. She stood a moment longer, staring blankly at the clock, then gave a little sigh, and moved on to examine the ornaments on the mantelpiece. Five minutes later the two girls descended the staircase, and drove away from the door. The next few hours passed pleasantly enough, but Claire wondered if it were her own imagination which made her think that Janet's manner was not quite so frank and bright as it had been before she had caught sight of the cuckoo clock. She never again said, "Claire"; but her brown eyes studied Claire's face with a wistful scrutiny, and from time to time a sharp little sigh punctuated her sentences. "But what could I tell her?" Claire asked unhappily of her sub- conscience. "I don't _know_--I only think; and even if he _did_ send it, it doesn't necessarily affect his feelings towards her. He was going to see her in a few days; and she is rich and has everything she wants, while I am poor and alone. It was just kindness, nothing more." But though her head was satisfied with such reasoning, her heart, like Janet's, refused to fall into line. At tea-time several callers arrived, foremost among them a tall man whom Claire at once recognised as the original of a portrait which stood opposite to that of Captain Fanshawe on the mantelpiece of Janet's boudoir. This was "the kind man, the thoughtful man," the man who remembered "little things," and in truth he bore the mark of it in every line of his good-humoured face. Apart from his expression, his appearance was ordinary enough; but he was self-evidently a man to trust, and Claire found something pathetic in the wistful admiration which shone in his eyes as they followed Janet Willoughby about the room. To ordinary observers she was just a pleasant girl with no pretensions to beauty; to him she was obviously the most lovely of her sex. He had no attention to spare for Claire or the other ladies present; he was absorbed in watching Janet, waiting for opportunities to serve Janet, listening eagerly to Janet's words. It is not often that an unengaged lover is so transparent in his devotion, but Malcolm Heward was supremely indifferent to the fact that he betrayed his feelings. At ten o'clock Claire rose to take leave, and Mrs Willoughby made a request.