The Independence of Claire. Mrs. George de Horne Vaizey

first smiled, and then sighed, and pulled out the hat-pins with impatient tugs. To be prudent and self-denying is not always an exhilarating process for sweet and twenty.

      Presently the maid came staggering upstairs with the smaller boxes, and Claire busied herself in her room until the clock had struck eight, when she again descended to the joint sitting-room. This time the fire was lighted, and the table laid for breakfast, and behind the tea-tray sat Miss Rhodes, the English mistress, already halfway through her meal. She rose, half smiling, half frowning, and held out a thin hand in welcome.

      “Morning. Hope you’ve had a good crossing. Didn’t know when you’d be down. Do you take coffee?”

      “Please!” Claire felt that a cup of coffee would be just what she needed, but missed the familiar fragrant scent. She seated herself at the table, and while Miss Rhodes went on with her preparation, studied her with curious eyes.

      She saw a woman of thirty-two or three, with well-cut features, dark eyes, and abundant dark hair—a woman who ought to have been distinctly good-looking but who succeeded in being plain and commonplace. She was badly-dressed, in a utility blouse of grey flannel, her expression was tired and listless, and her hair, though neat, showed obvious lack of care, having none of the silky sheen which rewards regular systematic brushing. So far bad, but, in spite of all drawbacks, it was an interesting face, and Claire felt attracted, despite the preliminary disappointment.

      “There’s some bacon in that dish. It will be cold, I’m afraid. You can ring, if you like, and ask them to warm it up, but they’ll keep you waiting a quarter of an hour out of spite. I’ve given it up myself.”

      “Oh, I’m accustomed to French breakfasts. I really want nothing but some bread and coffee.” Claire sipped at her cup as she finished speaking, and the sudden grimace of astonishment which followed roused her companion to laughter.

      “You don’t like it? It isn’t equal to your French coffee.”

      “It isn’t coffee at all. It’s undrinkable!” Claire pushed away her cup in disgust. “Is it always as bad as that?”

      “Worse!” said Miss Rhodes composedly. “They put in more this morning because of you. Sometimes it’s barely coloured, and it’s always chicory.” She shrugged resignedly. “No English landlady can make coffee. It’s no use worrying. Have to make the best of what comes.”

      “Indeed I shan’t. Why should I? I shan’t try. There’s no virtue in drinking such stuff. We provide the coffee—what’s to hinder us making it for ourselves?”

      “No fire, as a rule. Can’t afford one when you are going out immediately after breakfast.”

      Claire stared in dismay. It had never occurred to her that she might have to be economical to this extent.

      “But when it’s very cold? What do you do then?”

      “Put on a jersey, and nurse the hot-water jug!”

      Claire grimaced, then nodded with an air of determination.

      “I’ll buy a machine! There can be no objection to that. You would prefer good coffee, wouldn’t you, if you could get it without any more trouble?”

      “Oh, certainly. I’ll enjoy it—while it lasts!”

      “Why shouldn’t it last?”

      Miss Rhodes stared across at the eager young face. She looked tired, and a trifle impatient.

      “Oh, my dear girl, you’re New. We are all the same at first—bubbling over with energy, and determined to arrange everything exactly as we like. It’s a phase which we all live through. Afterwards you don’t care. You are too tired to worry. All your energy goes on your day’s work, and you are too thankful for peace and quietness to bother about details. You take what comes, and are thankful it’s not worse.”

      Claire’s smile showed an elaborate forbearance.

      “Rather a poor-spirited attitude, don’t you think?”

      “Wait and see!” said the English mistress.

      She rose and threw herself in a chair by the window, and Claire left the despised coffee and followed her example. Through the half-opened panes she looked out on a row of brick houses depressingly dingy, depressingly alike. About every second house showed a small black card on which the word “Apartments” was printed in gilt letters. Down the middle of the street came a fruiterer’s cart, piled high with wicker baskets. The cry of “Bananas, cheap bananas,” floated raucously on the air. Claire swiftly averted her eyes and turned back to her companion.

      “It is very good of you to let me share your appartement. Miss Farnborough said she had arranged it with you, but it must be horrid taking in a stranger. I will try not to be too great a bore!”

      But Miss Rhodes refused to be thanked.

      “I’m bound to have somebody,” said she ungraciously. “Couldn’t afford them alone. You know the terms? Thirty-five shillings a week for the three rooms. That’s cheap in this neighbourhood. We only get them at that price because we are out all day, and need so little catering.” She looked round the room with her tired, mocking smile. “Hope you admire the scheme of decoration! I’ve been in dozens of lodgings, but I don’t think I’ve ever struck an uglier room; but the people are clean and honest, and one has to put that before beauty, in our circumstances.”

      “There’s a great deal of pattern about. It hasn’t what one could call a restful effect!” said Claire, looking across at an ochre wall bespattered with golden scrawls, a red satin mantel-border painted with lustre roses, a suite of furniture covered in green stamped plush, a collection of inartistic pictures, and unornamental ornaments. Even her spirit quailed before the hopelessness of beautifying a room in which all the essentials were so hopelessly wrong. She gave it up in despair, and returned to the question of finance.

      “Then my share will be seventeen and six! That seems very cheap. I am to begin at a hundred and ten pounds. How much extra must I allow for food?”

      “That depends upon your requirements. We have dinner at school; quite a good meal for ninepence, including a penny for coffee afterwards.”

      “The same sort of coffee we have had this morning?”

      “Practically. A trifle better perhaps. Not much.”

      “Hurrah!” cried Claire gaily. “That’s a penny to the good! Eightpence for me—a clear saving of fivepence a week!”

      Miss Rhodes resolutely refused to smile. She had the air of thinking it ribald to be cheerful on the serious question of pounds, shillings and pence.

      “Even so, it’s three-and-four, and you can’t do breakfast and supper and full board on Saturday and Sunday under seven shillings. It’s tight enough to manage on that. Altogether it often mounts up to twelve.”

      “Seventeen and twelve.” Claire pondered deeply before she arrived at a solution. “Twenty-nine. Call it thirty, to make it even, and I am to begin at a hundred and ten. Over two pounds a week. I ought to do it comfortably, and have quite a lot over.”

      Miss Rhodes laughed darkly.

      “What about extras?” she demanded. “What about laundry, and fires, and stationery and stamps? What about boot-mending, and Tubes on wet days, and soap and candles, and dentist and medicines, and subs, at school, and collections in church, and travelling expenses on Saturdays and Sundays, when you invariably want to go to the very other side of the city? London is not like a provincial town. You can’t stir out of the house under fourpence or sixpence at the very least. What about illness, and amusement, and holidays? What about—”

      Claire thrust her fingers in her ears with an air of desperation.

      “Stop! Stop! For pity’s sake don’t swamp me any more. I feel in the bankruptcy court already, and