And at the time, Hope had whispered the flattering tale: “Yes, it is; but I’m in it, and he’ll come back on my account.”
Now Hope faded out of sight.
Of course the sharp-eyed Tiddy perceived that her friend was passing through a bad time. The flame of patriotism burned less brightly; the daily drudgery went on imposing fresh exacerbations. Tiddy felt very sorry, but she reflected, not without an inward smile, that Cicely would profit by these bludgeonings. She would learn what Sir Nathaniel called—values. Meanwhile, an unhappy young gentlewoman might mar her own life, and that of another, by marrying the wrong man. Tiddy decided that Arthur Wilverley was a good fellow. But he would take Cicely into his ample maw and absorb her. She would become Lord Wilverley’s wife, an amiable nonentity. She decided, also, with equal cocksureness, that such a match would prove disastrous to the husband. Wilverley worked in a circle likely to grow smaller if he were left alone with his potentialities. His energies would centre upon himself and his possessions. In this regard the author of Miss Tiddle’s being furnished an object-lesson. He reigned supreme in the pill factories and on occasion assumed the god, thereby shaking not the spheres but the sides of those who beheld him.
Eventually Tiddy came to the conclusion that Cicely and Wilverley were drifting, like leaves upon a stream, into marriage.
“I must take a hand in this game,” thought Miss Tiddle.
The necessity of doing “something” became even more imperative when she marshalled the forces arrayed against her. Lady Selina, she decided, was exercising, perhaps unconsciously, continual pressure. Mrs. Roden was plainly bent upon lending Providence a helping finger. She said majestically to Tiddy:
“You are a very sharp young lady.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Roden,” Tiddy demurely replied.
“Between ourselves, my dear”—Tiddy smiled—“I can assure you that the happiness of others concerns me more, much more, than my own.”
This was quite untrue, and Tiddy knew it. Mrs. Roden continued: