"I could sit here forever," she murmured, a lazy enjoyment succeeding to the agile movements of her body and the delighted agitation of her nerves. "It just suits me to sit here, cousin Harry. Looking like a great lady!" Her eyes challenged him to deny that she looked the part to perfection. She glanced through the window. "I met that funny little Madame Zabriska who lives up at Merrion Lodge to-day. She seems very anxious to know all about us."
"Madame Zabriska has a healthy—or unhealthy—curiosity." The mention of Mina was a fresh prick. Mina knew; suddenly he hated that she should know.
"Is she in love with you?" asked Cecily, mockingly yet languidly, indeed as a great lady might inquire about the less exalted, condescending to be amused.
"Nobody's in love with me, not even the girl who's going to marry me."
"To marry you?" She sat up, looking at him. "Are you engaged?"
"Yes, to Janie Iver. You know who I mean?"
"Yes, I know. You're going to be married to her?"
"I asked her a week ago. To-day she wrote to say she'd have me." He was on his feet even as he spoke. "To marry me and to marry all this, you know."
She was too sympathetic to waste breath on civil pretences.
"To be mistress here? To own this? To be Lady Tristram of Blent?"