"I suppose there is nothing else left for me to do. I would not have all the county see how utterly you have disappointed me. I have been a good mother to you, Cyril,"—tremulously,—"and this is how you requite me."
"It cuts me to the heart to grieve you so much,"—tenderly,—"you, my own mother. But I—I have been a good son to you, too, have I not, dear Madre?"
"You have indeed," says Lady Chetwoode; and then she cries a little behind her handkerchief.
"How old is she?" with quivering lips.
"Twenty-two or twenty-three, I am not sure which," in a subdued tone.
"In manner is she quiet?"
"Very. Tranquil is the word that best expresses her. When you see her you will acknowledge I have not erred in taste."
Lady Chetwoode with a sigh lays down her arms, and when Cyril stoops his face to hers she does not refuse the kiss he silently demands, so that with a lightened conscience he leaves the room to hurry on the wings of love to Cecilia's bower.
All the way there he seems to tread on air. His heart is beating, he is full of happiest exultation. The day is bright and joyous; already one begins to think of winter kindly as a thing of the past. All nature seems in unison with his exalted mood.