Chapter 23

On their way home the conversation of the girls turned chiefly on their
encounter with Mr. Chance. Constance displayed an unusual amount of
feminine curiosity, and asked a great many questions about him. Fan had
nothing to tell, for she dared not tell what she knew. It was a
peculiarity of her character, that if she knew anything to a person's
disadvantage she was anxious to conceal it, as if it had been something
reflecting on herself; apart from this, she felt that Miss Starbrow's
description of Mr. Chance would not be what Miss Churton wished to hear.
For it was plain that Constance had been favourably impressed, and had
taken Merton at his own valuation, which was a high one. While she kept
silence it troubled her to think that one who had been despised and
ridiculed by Mary should be highly esteemed by Constance, since she now
loved (or worshipped) them both in an equal degree.

At the gate it all at once occurred to her to ask whether she should tell
Mrs. Churton about meeting Mr. Chance in the wood or not.

"You may tell her if you like," said the other after a little hesitation.
"He is a friend of Miss Starbrow's; it was only natural that we should
talk with him." Then she added, "I shall say nothing about it, simply
because mother and I never talk about anything. You needn't mention it
unless you care to, Fan. I really don't believe that mother would feel
any interest in the subject."

She reddened a little after speaking, knowing that she had been slightly
disingenuous. Fan understood from her face more than from her words what
she really wished.

"Then I shall not say anything, unless Mrs. Churton asks me about our
walk, and if we met anyone," she returned.

But nothing was asked and nothing told.

At dinner next day Constance heard that Fan was going out with Mrs.
Churton to visit a neighbour. A bright look came into her expressive
face, followed by a swift blush, but she said nothing, and after dinner
went back to her room. As soon as the others had left the house she began
to dress for a walk, paying a great deal more attention to herself at the
glass than she was accustomed to do. Her luxuriant brown hair was brushed
out and rearranged, her artful fingers allowing three or four small locks
to escape and lie unconfined on her forehead and temples. She studied her
face very closely, thinking a great deal about that peculiar shade of
colour which she saw there. But her own face was so familiar to her, how
could she tell what another would think of it, and whether to city eyes
that brown tint would not make it look less like the face of a Rosalind
than of an Audrey? With her dress she was altogether dissatisfied, and
there was nothing