"I'm glad you understand him," Jean answered.
[CHAPTER VI.]
"NOT IN MY SET."
"And oh, for ane-and-twenty, Tam!
And hey, sweet ane-and-twenty, Tam!"
R. BURNS.
SYBELLA DEVEREUX, with a dinner-party hanging over her head, was a sight to see.
Dinner-parties at the Brow were not altogether unusual; and the servants knew what they were about; and Sybella was able to afford what she considered necessary, without reaching the end of her tether; but, none the less, she always lived through any amount of previous agonies, and invariably expected everything to go wrong.
Any dinner-party was bad enough; even if it were a concoction of her own devising, and after her own taste. Dear Lady Lucas, for example, as the central dish—if in these days one may talk, even symbolically, of "central dishes;" and that good Colonel Atherstone and his sister for side dishes; and the delightful new St. John's curate, Mr. Byng, whom report wrongfully declared to have been selected by Sybella herself for Mr. Kennedy; and of course dear Mr. Kennedy himself, not to mention that less desirable appendage, his wife—all these and any other members of the St. John's "set," as Evelyn had once incautiously termed them, to her husband's displeasure, Sybella was charmed to entertain. Any amount of previous agonies was worth enduring for such a consummation.
If, however, dinner-parties weighed upon Sybella's shoulders, when she had the devising of them, how much more would they weigh when their management was taken out of her hands, and when the traditions of her youth were liable to cruel outrage!
Cyril was not now only of age, but fully aware of the fact, and of all that it implied. He was his own master; and Sybella, his quondam guardian, could no longer exert authority over him; but this, she was slow to realise. His twenty-first birthday in August had been duly observed; and Sir Cyril had comported himself towards friends and neighbours, not only with what Sybella, called his "sweetly aristocratic" politeness, but also with the air unmistakable of master of the domain. Which of course he was! Ripley Brow belonged to Cyril—not to Sybella. Sybella's tenure of office was at an end; and if she remained at Ripley Brow, she remained by Cyril's permission. She had no grain of right to stay otherwise; and since she possessed her own independent income, sufficient to keep her in comfort, many doubted whether the permission would be long accorded. Sybella's worrying ways were pretty well known in the neighbourhood.
To Sybella herself, the idea had not so much as occurred that a change might be contemplated by her nephew. If Cyril were master—and that he meant to be master soon became evident—Sybella was mistress; and mistress she intended to remain. Ripley Brow had always been her home, therefore of course it always would be. No unusual style of argument, this, with more vigorous intellects than Sybella's.