Cicely hugged her, exuberantly glad to be at home again, but sensible of a change that tugged at her heart-strings. The old graciousness remained, the erect figure, the well-poised head, all the tiny authoritative gestures. But the smooth eyelids drooped more heavily, hiding anxious eyes. The right word came to her later, when they sat together in Lady Selina’s room.
Forlorn . . .!
What a word to apply to her mother! Always, she had thought of that mother as self-sufficing. Lady Selina, of course, was accustomed to being alone. She liked to entertain at due intervals—a Chandos tradition; she paid occasional visits; she spent periodic weeks at an old-fashioned hotel in London, in a cul-de-sac, where a gentlewoman could sleep between lavender-scented sheets, and almost believe that she was in the country.
Forlorn . . .!
Several reasons jumped into Cicely’s mind: maternal anxiety about Brian, a reduced establishment that forbade entertaining, her own absence from home at a time, possibly, when a devoted mother had set her heart upon “doing things” with her and for her. Without hesitation, she said abruptly:
“Would you like me to stay at home, Mums?”
Evidently, Lady Selina had considered this. She answered quickly:
“No. We must all do our duty, child.”
“You look so forlorn.”
It was impossible to keep back the insistent word. Lady Selina frowned.