iv

Claudia was the first person Edgar encountered that day. She was sitting by the fire in the breakfast-room, eating an apple and reading "The Daily Courier." A dress of blue serge with a small green collar and green cuffs made her look very slim and juvenile. Her dark hair, in a billow, hid part of her face as she bent over the paper; and Edgar could barely catch a glimpse of her eyelashes and the rather inquisitive tip of her nose. At the other end of her person there was a considerable display of ankle, small and well-shaped.

"Hullo, good-morning!" said Claudia cheerfully. "Nobody else down yet, my poor boy. And I only got up to see you. I think that girl's splendid." She cast aside her paper. "You've got good taste in people, Edgar. I've noticed it. She's got one fault; and I'm going to cure her of it. I'm going to take that girl in hand."

"I wonder if she'd do the same for you," pondered Edgar aloud, as he rang for breakfast.

"She may try. Don't you want to know her fault?" asked Claudia, with a straight glance.

"Perhaps I know it."

"Perhaps you do." The acknowledgment was faintly puzzled. "But you like her, don't you?"

"Very much."

"She's almost good enough for you to marry." Claudia was reflective.

"Oh, not quite?" innocently asked Edgar. "No, I suppose not." He was too well-acquainted with Claudia to be drawn, even if he had supposed her to be angling for an admission, which she was not.

"Is she rich?"

"I've no idea."

"I shall find out. I think she's poor. And that's one reason why this fault of hers is a danger."

They seated themselves at the table, and began to eat moderately warm breakfast.

"Why do you think it's a danger?" asked Edgar.

"Well ..." Claudia spoke with her mouth full; but she was full of candour, because she and Edgar were the best friends in the world. "You see, Edgar, she's conceited. It may be only skin deep; but if it isn't, then she's hopeless. I mean, if it's ingrained."

Edgar felt a creeping of the flesh. His grave expression of interest did not change; but his breath was a little short.

"She's very young, of course," he objected. "Isn't conceit a phase with some people?"

"I hope to cure her. But you'd admit it's a very dangerous thing to have in the blood."

"You're very wise, Claudia," he said, after a pause.

"I'm vain; and you're proud (which is a sort of vanity); and we're both obstinate. But we're not conceited. Now Patricia thinks no end of herself. She's got the idea that there's something wonderful just in the fact that she's herself. At least, I think so."

"She thought you were cleverer than she was. She liked you."

"Well, that's good," said Claudia. Edgar smiled. "No, don't you see, it's good because it shows.... All the same, its wrong to compare yourself."

"I've just been comparing myself with another man. I thought I came out of it rather well, on the whole...."

"Silly! That sort of thing's...."

"I was quite serious."

"Then you're in love. That's all I can say. And I don't want you to be in love—yet I like Patricia awfully. I'm going to see her; and I think I'm going to cure her of her fault. But if I don't cure her, then I'd sooner you didn't fall in love with her."

"I don't think we'll quite assume...."

"My dear Edgar. You can't bring a girl to this house without my realising that something's up. You'll grant that, won't you? I don't mean the ordinary inspection. Less crude than that, I hope. But none the less pretty obvious."

"I can see that it was a very incautious thing to do," admitted Edgar, solemnly.

"Therefore—" "Miaow!" cried Percy from outside the door. Claudia rose to admit him, speaking as she crossed the room. "Therefore—good-morning, Percy—I consider that I'm called on to protect you. You're fortunate in having me. Of course, mother's fallen in love with her on the spot; and hopes she will attract you."

For the first time Edgar showed signs of embarrassed exasperation.

"She's idiotic!" he muttered.

"The older generation," calmly explained Claudia. "That's what that is. You'd admit that I'm much more realistic. I'm not by any means sure that Patricia's ... well, eager to attract you. She ought to be, because you're the best man she's ever likely to meet. But you can't tell. When a girl's conceited, she tries this man and that until she's afraid of missing the train altogether. And then she plunges, and ... well!"

"Claudia, you make me uncomfortable by your profundity," said Edgar, respectfully.

She bowed to him across the table.

"Mother says I'm an enfant terrible. I have already told her that I'm a child of my generation. In some ways I know much more than you do, Edgar."

"In all, my dear. In all," was his modest rejoinder. "You also talk more. But I hope you will save Patricia."

"If I don't, nobody can," said Claudia. "But she may have to have a ... Well, we'll see. I was going to say she might have to burn her fingers. I wonder how you'd like that. Not much, I expect. Edgar, there's something I want to ask you...."