"Am I late?" she asks, going up to Lady Chetwoode and giving her a little caress as a good-morning. Her very touch is so gentle and childish and loving that it sinks straight into the deepest recesses of one's heart.
"No. Don't be alarmed. I have only just come down myself. You will soon find us out to be some of the laziest people alive."
"I am glad of it: I like lazy people," says Lilian; "all the rest seem to turn their lives into one great worry."
"Will you not give me a good-morning, Miss Chesney?" says Cyril, who is standing behind her.
"Good-morning," putting her hand into his.
"But that is not the way you gave it to my mother," in an aggrieved tone.
"No?—Oh!"—as she comprehends,—"but you should remember how much more deserving your mother is."
"With sorrow I acknowledge the truth of your remark," says Cyril, as he hands her her tea.
"Cyril is our naughty boy," Lady Chetwoode says; "we all spend our lives making allowances for Cyril. You must not mind what he says. I hope you slept well, Lilian; there is nothing does one so much good as a sound sleep, and you looked quite pale with fatigue last night. You see"—smiling—"how well I know your name. It is very familiar to me, having been your dear mother's."
"It seems strangely familiar to me also, though I never know your mother," says Cyril. "I don't believe I shall ever be able to call you Miss Chesney. Would it make you very angry if I called you Lilian?"