Cicely murmured deprecatingly:
“Arthur Wilverley is a dear.”
“So is our butler at home. I might do worse than marry him, but I hope to do better.”
“You won’t meet Mr. Grimshaw, Tiddy, because he’s going to France.”
“Settled, is it?”
“Yes. He—he”—her voice faltered—“went away yesterday, so dear Mother wrote.”
“So dear Mother wrote . . .! I’ll bet my boots that dear Mother managed all this.”
“She didn’t.”
“Anyhow, you mismanaged it. Well, if Romy cares he’ll come back.”
“Do you think he will?”