“But I don’t think that is likely,” said Cecil. “And it does seem so stupid to let the time pass on, and do nothing for years and years just because there is a chance that some man whom you could accept may propose to you. The chances are quite equal that it may not be so, and then you have wasted a great part of your life.”
“I wish you could have fancied Herbert White,” said Mrs. Boniface wistfully. “He would have made such a good husband.”
“I hope he will to some one else. But that would have been impossible, mother, quite, quite impossible.”
“Cecil, dearie, is there—is there any one else?”
“No one, mother,” said Cecil quietly, and the color in her cheeks did not deepen, and Mrs. Boniface felt satisfied. Yet, nevertheless, at that very moment there flashed into Cecil’s mind the perception of the real reason which had made it impossible for her to accept the offer of marriage that a week or two ago she had refused. She saw that Frithiof Falck would always be to her a sort of standard by which to measure the rest of mankind, and she faced the thought quietly, for there never had been any question of love between them; he would probably marry the pretty Miss Morgan, and it was very unlikely that she should ever meet him again.
“The man whom I could accept must be that sort of man,” she thought to herself. “And there is something degrading in the idea of standing and waiting for the doubtful chance that such a one may some day appear. Surely we girls were not born into the world just to stand in rows waiting to get married?”
“And I am sure I don’t know what I should do without you if you did get married,” said Mrs. Boniface, driving back the tears which had started to her eyes, “so I don’t know why I am so anxious that it should come about, except that I should so like to see you happy.”
“And so I am happy, perfectly happy,” said Cecil, and as she spoke she suddenly bent forward and kissed her mother. “A girl would have to be very wicked not to be happy with you and father and Roy to live with.”
“I wish you were not cut off from so much,” said Mrs. Boniface. “You see, dear, if you were alone in the world people would take you up—I mean the style of people you would care to be friends with—but as long as there’s the shop, and as long as you have a mother who can’t talk well about recent books, and who is not always sure how to pronounce things—”
“Mother! mother!” cried Cecil, “how can you say such things? As long as I have you, what do I want with any one else?”