“Too much Christmas,” she said trenchantly.
Out of sight and hearing of her august mother, Cicely often amused herself by understudying Tiddy. So she replied calmly:
“Yes; I overrate myself. Plum-pudding and mince-pies. What can you expect when a poor girl is hungry and greedy?”
Mrs. Roden smiled grimly. Cicely’s spirit did not displease her. The one thing needful in a world to be regenerated by WOMAN was spirit.
“We missed you, my dear. Arthur was quite depressed. How is your mother?”
“Just the same.”
“Wonderful woman! The world is in the melting-pot, but she doesn’t change. Sometimes I envy her. Amazing powers of detachment.”
“And attachment. She was sweet to me, Mrs. Roden. I—I hated to leave her alone in that big house.”
“You know that you are wanted here.”
As if this statement exacted emphasis, Wilverley came in, unmistakably joyous, holding out two hands. And he happened to be looking his best in riding-kit, exuding energy and goodwill, so delighted to see Cicely that his genial tones betrayed him as lover and would-be conqueror. She felt herself whirled away upon a flood of eager questions, which taken collectively embodied the supreme question. Mrs. Roden tactfully retired.