The whole thing was, to Daphne, a treat. Something in the atmosphere of Ladysmith Cottage—that was its name—fascinated and amused her.
Mrs. Foster was a widow. Her husband had been a distinguished soldier. Almost the whole of her extremely small income had been devoted to Cyril's education, and with the assistance of an uncle who took interest in him, he had been got into the Guards, where he existed happily with a comparatively small allowance.
Mrs. Foster had not been at all surprised or annoyed at his wishing to marry at twenty-two. She thought it extremely natural. It seemed to her very sensible of Daphne to accept him, and that she was the most fortunate girl in existence.
"I hope your sister doesn't mind my taking you away from the gay, fashionable world for a day?" she archly asked.
"Oh no, of course not. We're going in the country next week, so I wanted to see you."
"Cyril's at Aldershot. I don't think he'll be able to come down this afternoon. He can't get away this week, I'm afraid."
"I shall see him before I go," said Daphne.
"Do you have a letter from him every day, darling?"
"Oh yes, a few lines."
"He is a noble boy!" said Mrs. Foster enthusiastically. "How he always hated writing letters! I remember how I guided his little hand to write his first letter to his uncle, General Rayner. Just as we got to the end of the letter Cyril suddenly jumped up and threw over the table. The letter was simply drenched in ink. Dear boy! I've got it still.... Oh, you must come into the garden, Daphne. I've something new to show you. A friend of mine has just let her house. She didn't know what to do with her dovecot—nobody wanted it—so she's given it to me. Come and see the dear little creatures—they are so pretty."