Even as the thought passed through the girl's mind the door of the bedroom opened, and Mrs Gifford appeared on the threshold. She wore a large shady hat, and in the dim light of the room her face was not clearly visible, but there was a tone in her voice which aroused Claire's instant curiosity. Mother was trying to speak in her ordinary voice, but she was nervous, she was agitated. She was not feeling ordinary at all. "Claire, _cherie_, we are going to the forest to have tea. It is impossibly hot indoors, but it will be delightful under the trees. Mr Judge has sent for a _fiacre_, and Miss Benson has asked to come too. Put on your blue muslin and your big hat. Be quick, darling! I'll fasten you up." "I'd rather not go, thank you, mother. I'm quite happy here. Don't trouble about me!" Mrs Gifford was obviously discomposed. She hesitated, frowned, walked restlessly up and down, then spoke again with an added note of insistence-- "But I want you to come, Claire. I've not troubled you before, because I saw you wanted to be alone, but--it can't go on. Mr Judge wants you to come. He suggested the drive because he thought it would tempt you. If you refuse to-day, he will ask you again to-morrow. I think, dear, you ought to come." Claire was silent. She felt sick and faint; all over her body little pulses seemed to be whizzing like so many alarm clocks, all crying in insistent voices, "Time's up! Time's up! No more lazing. Up with you, and do your duty!" Her forehead felt very damp and her throat felt very dry, and she heard a sharp disagreeable voice saying curtly-- "Oh, certainly, I will come. No need to make a fuss. I can dress myself, thank you. I'll come down when I'm ready!" Mrs Gifford turned without a word and went out of the room, but Claire was too busy being sorry for herself to have sympathy to spare for anyone else. She threw off her wrapper and slipped into the cool muslin dress which was at once so simple, and so essentially French and up-to- date, and then, throwing open the door of a cupboard, stared at a long row of hats ranged on a top shelf, and deliberately selected the one which she considered the least becoming. "I will _not_ be decked up for the sacrifice!" she muttered rebelliously, then bent forward, so that her face approached close to the flushed, frowning reflection in the glass. "You are going to be proposed to, my dear!" she said scornfully. "You are going to be good and sensible, and say `Yes, please!' When you see yourself next, you will be Engaged! It won't be dear little Claire Gifford any more, it will be the horrible future Mrs Robert Judge!" She stuck hat-pins through the straw hat with savage energy; for once in her life noticed with distinct satisfaction that it was secured at an unbecoming angle, then, hearing through the _jalousies_ the sound of approaching wheels, marched resolutely forth to meet her fate...