A chance acquaintance may, under favourable circumstances, develop faster than one brought about by formal introduction, because neither party has been previously led to expect anything of the other. There is no surer way of making friendship impossible than telling two people that they are sure to be such good friends, and are just suited to each other. The law of natural selection applies to almost everything we want in the world, from food and climate to a wife.  
When Clare and her mother had established themselves as usual on the terrace under the vines that afternoon, Brook came and sat beside them for a while. Mrs. Bowring liked him and talked easily with him, but Clare was silent and seemed absent-minded. The young man looked at her from time to time with curiosity, for he was not used to being treated with such perfect indifference as she showed to him. He was not spoilt, as the phrase goes, but he had always been accustomed to a certain amount of attention, when he met new people, and, without   being in the least annoyed, he thought it strange that this particular young lady should seem not even to listen to what he said.
 
Mrs. Bowring, on the other hand, scarcely took her eyes from his face after the first ten minutes, and not a word he spoke escaped her. By contrast with her daughter’s behaviour, her earnest attention was very noticeable. By degrees she began to ask him questions about himself.
 
“Do you expect your people to-morrow?” she inquired.
 
Clare looked up quickly. It was very unlike her mother to show even that small amount of curiosity about a stranger. It was clear that Mrs. Bowring had conceived a sudden liking for the young man.
 
“They were to have been here to-day,” he answered indifferently. “They may come this evening, I suppose, but they have not even ordered rooms. I asked the man there—the owner of the place, I suppose he is.”
 
“Then of course you will wait for them,” suggested Mrs. Bowring.
 
“Yes. It’s an awful bore, too. That is—” he corrected himself hastily—“I mean, if I were to be here without a soul to speak to, you know. Of course, it’s different, this way.”
 
“How?” asked Mrs. Bowring, with a brighter   smile than Clare had seen on her face for a long time.
 
“Oh, because you are so kind as to let me talk to you,” answered the young man, without the least embarrassment.
 
“Then you are a social person?” Mrs. Bowring laughed a little. “You don’t like to be alone?”
 
“Oh no! Not when I can be with nice people. Of course not. I don’t believe anybody does. Unless I’m doing something, you know—shooting, or going up a hill, or fishing. Then I don’t mind. But of course I would much rather be alone than with bores, don’t you know? Or—or—well, the other kind of people.”
 
“What kind?” asked Mrs. Bowring.
 
“There are only two kinds,” answered Brook, gravely. “There is our kind—and then there is the other kind. I don’t know what to call them, do you? All the people who never seem to understand exactly what we are talking about nor why we do things—and all that. I call them ‘the other kind.’ But then I haven’t a great command of language. What should you call them?”
 
“Cads, perhaps,” suggested Clare, who had not spoken for a long time.
 
“Oh no, not exactly,” answered the young man, looking at her. “Besides, ‘cads’ doesn   ’t include women, does it? A gentleman’s son sometimes turns out a most awful cad, a regular ‘bounder.’ It’s rare, but it does happen sometimes. A mere cad may know, and understand all right, but he’s got the wrong sort of feeling inside of him about most things. For instance—you don’t mind? A cad may know perfectly well that he ought not to ‘kiss and tell’—but he will all the same. The ‘other kind,’ as I call them, don’t even know. That makes them awfully hard to get on with.”
 
“Then, of the two, you prefer the cad?” inquired Clare coolly.
 
“No. I don’t know. They are both pretty bad. But a cad may be very amusing, sometimes.”
 
“When he kisses and tells?” asked the young girl viciously.
 
Brook looked at her, in quick surprise at her tone.
 
“No,” he answered quietly. “I didn’t mean that. The clowns in the circus represent amusing cads. Some of them are awfully clever, too,” he added, turning the subject. “Some of those fiddling fellows are extraordinary. They really play very decently. They must have a lot of talent, when you think of all the different things they do besides their feats of strength—they act, and play the fiddle, and sing, and dance   —”
 
“You seem to have a great admiration for clowns,” observed Clare in an indifferent tone.
 
“Well—they are amusing, aren’t they? Of course, it isn’t high art, and that sort of thing, but one laughs at them, and sometimes they do very pretty things. One can’t be always on one’s hind legs, doing Hamlet, can one? There’s a limit to the amount of tragedy one can stand during life. After all, it is better to laugh than to cry.”
 
“When one can,” said Mrs. Bowring thoughtfully.
 
“Some people always can, whatever happens,” said the young girl.
 
“Perhaps they are right,” answered the young man. “Things are not often so serious as they are supposed to be. It’s like being in a house that’s supposed to be haunted—on All Hallow E’en, for instance—it’s awfully gruesome and creepy at night when the wind moans and the owls screech. And then, the next morning, one wonders how one could have been such an idiot. Other things are often like that. You think the world’s coming to an end—and then it doesn’t, you know. It goes on just the same. You are rather surprised at first, but you soon get used to it. I suppose that is what is meant by losing one’s illusions.”
 
“Sometimes the world stops for an individual   and doesn’t go on again,” said Mrs. Bowring, with a faint smile.
 
“Oh, I suppose people do break their hearts sometimes,” returned Brook, somewhat thoughtfully. “But it must be something tremendously serious,” he added with instant cheerfulness. “I don’t believe it happens often. Most people just have a queer sensation in their throat for a minute, and they smoke a cigarette for their nerves, and go away and think of something else.”
 
Clare looked at him, and her eyes flashed angrily, for she remembered Lady Fan’s cigarette and the preceding evening. He remembered it too, and was thinking of it, for he smiled as he spoke and looked away at the horizon as though he saw something in the air. For the first time in her life the young girl had a cruel impulse. She wished that she were a great beauty, or that she possessed infinite charm, that she might revenge the little lady in white and make the man suffer as he deserved. At one moment she was ashamed of the wish, and then again it returned, and she smiled as she thought of it.
 
She was vaguely aware, too, that the man attracted her in a way which did not interfere with her resentment against him. She would certainly not have admitted that he was interesting   to her on account of Lady Fan—but there was in her a feminine willingness to play with the fire at which another woman had burned her wings. Almost all women feel that, until they have once felt too much themselves. The more innocent and inexperienced they are, the more sure they are, as a rule, of their own perfect safety, and the more ready to run any risk.
 
Neither of the women answered the young man’s rather frivolous assertion for some moments. Then Mrs. Bowring looked at him kindly, but with a far-away expression, as though she were thinking of some one else.
 
“You are young,” she said gently.
 
“It’s true that I’m not very old,” he answered. “I was five-and-twenty on my last birthday.”
 
“Five-and-twenty,” repeated Mrs. Bowring very slowly, and looking at the distance, with the air of a person who is making a mental calculation.
 
“Are you surprised?” asked the young man, watching her.
 
She started a little.
 
“Surprised? Oh dear no! Why should I be?”
 
And again she looked at him earnestly, until, realising what she was doing, she suddenly shut her eyes, shook herself almost imperceptibly, and took out some work which she had brought out with her.
 
 
“Oh!” he exclaimed. “I thought you might fancy I was a good deal older or younger. But I’m always told that I look just my age.”
 
“I think you do,” answered Mrs. Bowring, without looking up.
 
Clare glanced at his face again. It was natural, under the circumstances, though she knew his features by heart already. She met his eyes, and for a moment she could not look away from them. It was as though they fixed her against her will, after she had once met them. There was nothing extraordinary about them, except that they were very bright and clear. With an effort she turned away, and the faint colour rose in her face.
 
“I am nineteen,” she said quietly, as though she were answering a question.
 
“Indeed?” exclaimed Brook, not thinking of anything else to say.
 
Mrs. Bowring looked at her daughter in considerable surprise. Then Clare blushed painfully, realising that she had spoken without any intention of speaking, and had volunteered a piece of information which had certainly not been asked. It was very well, being but nineteen years old; but she was oddly conscious that if she had been forty she should have said so in just the same absent-minded way, at that moment.
 
 
“Nineteen and six are twenty-five, aren’t they?” asked Mrs. Bowring suddenly.
 
“Yes, I believe so,” answered the young man, with a laugh, but a good deal surprised in his turn, for the question seemed irrelevant and absurd in the extreme. “But I’m not good at sums,” he added. “I was an awful idiot at school. They used to call me Log. That was short for logarithm, you know, because I was such a log at arithmetic. A fellow gave me the nickname one day. It wasn’t very funny, so I punched his head. But the name stuck to me. Awfully appropriate, anyhow, as it turned out.”
 
“Did you punch his head because it wasn’t funny?” asked Clare, glad of the turn in the conversation.
 
“Oh—I don’t know—on general principles. He was a diabolically clever little chap, though he wasn’t very witty. He came out Senior Wrangler at Cambridge. I heard he had gone mad last year. Lots of those clever chaps do, you know. Or else they turn parsons and take pupils for a living. I’d much rather be stupid, myself. There’s more to live for, when you don’t know everything. Don’t you think so?”
 
Both women laughed, and felt that the man was tactful. They were also both reflecting, of themselves and of each other, that they were not generally silly women, and they wondered   how they had both managed to say such foolish things, speaking out irrelevantly what was passing in their minds.
 
“I think I shall go for a walk,” said Brook, rising rather abruptly. “I’ll go up the hill for a change. Thanks awfully. Good-bye!”
 
He lifted his hat and went off towards the hotel. Mrs. Bowring looked after him, but Clare leaned back in her seat and opened a book she had with her. The colour rose and fell in her cheeks, and she kept her eyes resolutely bent down.
 
“What a nice fellow!” exclaimed Mrs. Bowring when the young man was out of hearing. “I wonder who he is.”
 
“What difference can it make, what his name is?” asked Clare, still looking down.
 
“What is the matter with you, child?” Mrs. Bowring asked. “You talk so strangely to-day!”
 
“So do you, mother. Fancy asking him whether nineteen and six are twenty-five!”
 
“For that matter, my dear, I thought it very strange that you should tell him your age, like that.”
 
“I suppose I was absent-minded. Yes! I know it was silly, I don’t know why I said it. Do you want to know his name? I’ll go and see. It must be on the board by this time, as he is stopping here.”
 
  She rose and was going, when her mother called her back.
 
“Clare! Wait till he is gone, at all events! Fancy, if he saw you!”
 
“Oh! He won’t see me! If he comes that way I’ll go into the office and buy stamps.”
 
Clare went in and looked over the square board with its many little slips for the names of the guests. Some were on visiting cards and some were written in the large, scrawling, illiterate hand of the head waiter. Some belonged to people who were already gone. It looked well, in the little hotel, to have a great many names on the list. Some seconds passed before Clare found that of the new-comer.
 
“Mr. Brook Johnstone.”
 
Brook was his first name, then. It was uncommon. She looked at it fixedly. There was no address on the small, neatly engraved card. While she was looking at it a door opened quietly behind her, in the opposite side of the corridor. She paid no attention to it for a moment; then, hearing no footsteps, she instinctively turned. Brook Johnstone was standing on the threshold watching her. She blushed violently, in her annoyance, for he could not doubt but that she was looking for his name. He saw and understood, and came forward naturally, with a smile. He had a stick in his hand.
 
 
“That’s me,” he said, with a little laugh, tapping his card on the board with the head of his stick. “If I’d had an ounce of manners I should have managed to tell you who I was by this time. Won’t you excuse me, and take this for an introduction? Johnstone—with an E at the end—Scotch, you know.”
 
“Thanks,” answered Clare, recovering from her embarrassment. “I’ll tell my mother.” She hesitated a moment. “And that’s us,” she added, laughing rather nervously and pointing out one of the cards. “How grammatical we are, aren’t we?” she laughed, while he stooped and read the name which chanced to be at the bottom of the board.
 
“Well—what should one say? ‘That’s we.’ It sounds just as badly. And you can’t say ‘we are that,’ can you? Besides, there’s no one to hear us, so it makes no difference. I don’t suppose that you—you and Mrs. Bowring—would care to go for a walk, would you?”
 
“No,” answered Clare, with sudden coldness. “I don’t think so, thank you. We are not great walkers.”
 
They went as far as the door together. Johnstone bowed and walked off, and Clare went back to her mother.
 
“He caught me,” she said, in a tone of annoyance. “You were quite right. Then he showed   me his name himself, on the board. It’s Johnstone—Mr. Brook Johnstone, with an E—he says that he is Scotch. Why—mother! Johnstone! How odd! That was the name of—”
 
She stopped short and looked at her mother, who had grown unnaturally pale during the last few seconds.
 
“Yes, dear. That was the name of my first husband.”
 
Mrs. Bowring spoke in a low voice, looking down at her work. But her hands trembled violently, and she was clearly making a great effort to control herself. Clare watched her anxiously, not at all understanding.
 
“Mother dear, what is it?” she asked. “The name is only a coincidence—it’s not such an uncommon name, after all—and besides—”
 
“Oh, of course,” said Mrs. Bowring, in a dull tone. “It’s a mere coincidence—probably no relation. I’m nervous, to-day.”
 
Her manner seemed unaccountable to her daughter, except on the supposition that she was ill. She very rarely spoke of her first husband, by whom she had no children. When she did, she mentioned his name gravely, as one speaks of dead persons who have been dear, but that was all. She had never shown anything like emotion in connection with the subject, and the young girl avoided it instinctively, as most   children, of whose parents the one has been twice married, avoid the mention of the first husband or wife, who was not their father or mother.
 
“I wish I understood you!” exclaimed Clare.
 
“There’s nothing to understand, dear,” said Mrs. Bowring, still very pale. “I’m nervous—that’s all.”
 
Before long she left Clare by herself and went indoors, and locked herself into her room. The rooms in the old hotel were once the cells of the monks, small vaulted chambers in which there is barely space for the most necessary furniture. During nearly an hour Mrs. Bowring paced up and down, a beat of fourteen feet between the low window and the locked door. At last she stopped before the little glass, and looked at herself, and smoothed her streaked hair.
 
“Nineteen and six—are twenty-five,” she said slowly in a low voice, and her eyes stared into their own reflection rather wildly.