"Yours ever,
"R. ELGAR."
Mrs. Lessingham looked up. Cecily, who was standing before her, now met her gaze steadily.
"The meaning of this is plain enough," said her aunt, with careful repression of feeling. "But I am at a loss to understand how it has come about."
"I cannot tell you, aunt. I cannot tell myself."
Cecily's true accents once more. It was as though she had recovered all her natural self-command now that the revelation was made. The flush still possessed her cheeks, but she had no look of embarrassment; she spoke in a soft murmur, but distinctly, firmly.
"I am afraid that is only too likely, dear. Come and sit down, little girl, and tell me, at all events, something about it."
"Little girl?" repeated Cecily, with a sweet, affectionate smile. "No; that has gone by, aunt."
"I thought so myself the other day; but—I suppose you have met Mr. Elgar several times at his sister's, and have said nothing to me about it?"
"That would not have been my usual behaviour, I hope. When did I deceive you, aunt?"
"Never, that I know. Where have you met then?"