“When the shower is over,” she remarked tartly, “I’ll put down my umbrella.”
Cicely, feeling ridiculous, gulped down her sobs.
“I wish I had your brains.”
“Tosh! Your brains are O. K. You’re too indolent to use them. Marry the wrong man, and your brains will become a negligible quantity. What beats me is that Lord Wilverley should talk to you at all when he might talk to me.”
At this Cicely “sat up,” literally and metaphorically. Tiddy closed her umbrella, but held it ready for use. She added calmly:
“I could make him talk to me, if I tried.”
“Take him from me, you mean?”
“Quite easily.”
Cicely’s eyes began to sparkle.
“He ought to marry a woman with some snap and ginger. I could egg him on to great things.”