“They like you, Tiddy,” said Cicely, as the pair warmed their toes over the bedroom fire.
“I like them, Cis. Mrs. Roden frightens you, I see, but you were right: she’s a scream. I must pull up my socks, and take her as seriously as she takes herself. Lord Wilverley is not quite the bromide you had led me to expect.”
“I never said a word against him.”
“Oh! Didn’t you? Evidently he’s dead nuts on you. Has he proposed, old thing?”
Cicely blushingly admitted that my lord had plunged into water too hot for both of them. Tiddy went on ruthlessly:
“And Romeo with the disconcerting eyes . . .?”
“Shut up!”
“I couldn’t, if I tried. Let’s have it fresh from the oven.”
Cicely, after more pressure, gave a not too articulate version of what had passed between Grimshaw and herself. Tiddy listened, with her head on one side, bright-eyed, not unlike a robin watching another robin picking up crumbs. From time to time, she shook her curls impatiently, but she held her tongue till Cicely finished.
Then Miss Tiddle delivered judgment with all the wisdom of youth.