"Sorry, Claire. I'm a wretch. You must hate me. I ought to be shot. Nice Saturday morning I've given you! What are you going to do this afternoon?" Claire's eyes turned towards the window with an expression sad to see on so young a face--an imprisoned look. Her voice seemed to lose all its timbre as she replied in one flat dreary word-- "Nothing!" A spasm of irresolution passed across Cecil's face. For a moment she looked as if she were about to throw aside her own project and cast in her lot with her friend's. Then her face hardened, and she turned towards the door. "Why not call for Sophie Blake, and see if she will go a walk? She asked you once before." With that she was gone, and Claire was left to consider the proposition. Sophie Blake, the Games mistress, was the single member of the staff who had shown any disposition towards real friendship, though the intimacy was so far confined to one afternoon's walk, and an occasional chat in the dinner hour, but this afternoon the thought of her merry smile acted as an irresistible magnet. Claire ran upstairs to get ready, in a panic lest she might arrive at Sophie's lodgings to find she had already gone out for the afternoon. Cecil had hinted that she might not return until late, and suddenly it seemed unbearable to spend the rest of the day in solitude. Restlessness was in the air, first the pleasurable restlessness caused by the receipt of Mrs Willoughby's invitation, then the disagreeable restlessness caused by Cecil's erratic behaviour. As she hurried through the streets towards Sophie Blake's lodgings, Claire pondered over the mystery of this sudden development on Cecil's part. Where was she going? Whom was she going to see? Why declare with one breath that she was without a friend, and with the next that if she chose she might accept invitations every week? What special reason had to-day inspired such unusual care in her appearance? Sophie was at home. Lonely Claire felt quite a throb of relief as she heard the welcome words. She entered the oil-clothed passage and was shown into a small, very warm, very untidy front parlour wherein stood Sophie herself, staring with widened eyes at the opening door. "Oh, it's _you_!" she cried. "What a fright you gave me! I couldn't think _who_ it could be. Come in! Sit down! Can you find a free chair? Saturday is my work day. I've been darning stockings, and trimming a hat, and ironing a blouse, and washing lace, and writing letters all in a rush. I love a muddle on Saturdays. It's such a change after routine all the week. What do you think of the hat? Seven and sixpence, all told. I flatter myself it looks worth every penny of ten. Don't pull down that cloth. The iron's underneath. Be careful of that table! The ink-pot's somewhere about. How sweet of you to call! I'll clear this muddle away and then we can talk ... Oh, my arm!" "What's the matter with the arm?" Sophie shrugged carelessly.