At almost the same moment, a somewhat similar thought passed through Jean's mind: "How much pleasanter Mrs. Kennedy is than I have always fancied!"
But neither could hear the other.
Passing through Dutton, Mrs. Kennedy turned aside near the Post-Office, into a side street, where was a greengrocer's, opposite a red house. Mrs. Kennedy had taken to patronising this greengrocer of late from economical motives. She gave an order for the morrow, and walked out in time to see an active figure run up the steps of the red house, turn the handle of the front door, and enter.
"If that isn't Sir Cyril himself!" ejaculated Mrs. Kennedy under her breath. "And as much at home as if—! Something is in the air—that's certain! Poor dear Miss Devereux."
Of course Mrs. Kennedy knew all about the Lucases, since family secrets were apt to ooze out in Dutton. She wisely kept her own counsel, however, when she went home, and said nothing—even to her husband. Through sheer forgetfulness and absence of mind, he was apt to repeat things which had no business to be repeated; and his wife had learned through dire experience that silence is sometimes the better form of discretion. Whether her reticence would have survived a tête-à-tête with Mabel Ingram may be doubted; but Mabel was from home. So Mrs. Kennedy conjectured, and was mute.
She had made no mistake. It really was Sir Cyril Devereux, who had run up the stone steps, and had entered lightly without ringing.
He had been to the red house very often of late, oftener than he realised. During the short period of convalescence after his accident, he had paid many and lengthy calls on the Lucases. Then came the break of his last term at Oxford. And before Christmas, he returned home "for good," a gentleman at large, with a comfortable property and plenty of interests, but no definite line of work in life.
The property was large enough to require attention, but by no means so extensive as to absorb the whole of a young man's energies. Many beside Lady Lucas had earnestly advised Sybella to provide some definite line for Cyril, during at least the earlier years of his manhood; but she had refused to see the need.
"He could take up anything he liked," she said; "but he would, have plenty of money. For her part, she didn't see why he need slave; and she was sure his health would not stand hard work; and he might just as well live comfortably at home with her! He could find plenty to do in Dulveriford."
Cyril had not opposed this view of the question. He was vaguely desirous to make a "career" for himself somehow; but he had not decided on the manner of that career. He seemed to have no special bent beyond a general love of art, and literature; and since, from a money point of view, there was no hurry, he resolved to wait. Something would turn up, sooner or later.