“I don’t know, Arthur. In another sense, women coop themselves up. Some of us are driven—driven into coops.”
He was astonished that she spoke so sadly, but, knowing little of women and their tendency to make all argument personal, he never supposed that what she said applied to herself. In a different tone he continued briskly:
“My wife would have a free hand, Cicely. By the way, I have been talking a lot with Tiddy whilst you were at Danecourt.”
“With Tiddy? Do you call her Tiddy?”
He laughed.
“Of course I do; everybody does. A jolly clever girl, sharp as a needle—a rattling good sort. She will bike over here next Sunday.”
“Oh! Does Tiddy know that you are here to-day?”
“No.”
Chandos silence spread its impenetrable veil over Cicely. What was Tiddy up to? Had she carried out her preposterous threat? Was she really trying to capture Arthur? An uncomfortable, disconcerting emotion, which Cicely would have repudiated vehemently if anybody had dared to call it jealousy, quickened within. Wilverley, happily unconscious of virginal alarums and excursions, went on cantering at his big fence.
“I have something to show you, dear.”