As she spoke, she pulled off a white glove with black stitching and revealed a ring sparkling upon the third finger of her left hand. Cicely saw a small cluster of diamonds, a ring that she might have worn herself.
“John Exton gave me this before he joined up.”
Cicely kissed her.
“I’m ever so glad. Tell me all about it.”
Agatha, nothing loath, remarked with urban complacency:
“I do believe that prinking did it. I was a terrible dowd before I went to town. Those everlasting greys . . .! My lady liked that. So suitable . . .! We girls talked a lot about clothes.”
“I always wondered what you did talk about.”
“I was ragged—a fair treat. I had to grin and bear it. Well, what was in the Savings Bank came out of it—quick. In six months I didn’t know myself. When John came up and saw me, I knew that I hadn’t been the fool I secretly thought myself. It’s gospel truth; girls like me must march with the band, or—or be left behind.”
“I don’t blame you or John,” declared Cicely.
Agatha continued in the same slightly complacent tone, which jarred upon Lady Selina’s daughter, although it served to amuse and instruct her. Her soft, respectful manner of address had evidently been cast as rubbish to the void. Cicely divined that she had become something of an echo.