On the seventh afternoon of her visit, Claire was in her room writing a letter to Sophie when she heard a sudden tumult below, and felt her heart bound at the sound of a familiar voice. The pen dropped from her hand, and she sat transfixed, her cheeks burning with excitement. It could not be! It was preposterous, impossible. He was in Scotland. Only that morning there had been a letter.--It was impossible, impossible, and then again came the sound of that voice, that laugh, and she was on her feet, running across the floor, opening the door, listening with straining ears. A voice rose clear and distinct from the hall beneath, the deep, strong voice about which there could be no mistake. "A perfect flood! The last five days have been hopeless. I was tired of being soaked to the skin, and having to change my clothes every two hours, so I cut it, picked up Humphreys in town, and came along home. And how have you been getting on, mater? You look uncommonly fit!" "I'm quite well. I am perfectly well. You need not have come home on my account," Mrs Fanshawe's voice had a decided edge. "I suppose this is just a flying visit. You will be going on to pay another visit. I have a friend with me--a Miss Gifford. You met her at the Willoughbys'." "So I did! Yes. That's all right. I'm glad you had company. I suppose I _shall_ be moving on one of these days. I say, mother, what about tea?" Claire shut the door softly, and turned back into the room. Erskine's voice had sounded absolutely normal and unmoved: judging by it no one could have imagined that Miss Gifford's presence or absence afforded him the slightest interest, and yet, and yet, the mysterious inner voice was speaking again, declaring that it was not the wet weather which had driven him back ... that he had hurried home because he knew, he knew-- In ten minutes' time tea would be served. Claire did not change her dress or make any alteration in her simple attire, her energies during those few minutes were chiefly devoted to cooling her flushed cheeks, and when the gong sounded she ran downstairs, letters in hand, and evinced a politely impersonal surprise at the sight of Captain Erskine and his friend. Mrs Fanshawe's eyes followed the girl's movements with a keen scrutiny. It seemed to her that Claire's indifference was a trifle overdone: Erskine also was unnaturally composed. Under ordinary circumstances such a meeting would have called forth a frank, natural pleasure. She set her lips, and determined to leave nothing to chance. CHAPTER TWENTY. THE FLOWERY WAY.