Tiddy went on, relentlessly:
“I’ve a lot to say to you, and I don’t want to be flooded out before I’ve done talking. Keep your powder dry! If there’s to be crying, I’ll do it. I could burst into heart-breaking sobs at this minute. A nice mess you’ve made of it.”
“I—I don’t know what you mean.”
Tiddy became melodramatic, not intentionally. She detested posing and pretence. Violence served to disguise her feelings. Cicely’s miserable face, her utter collapse at the first shot, moved Tiddy profoundly. She had half hoped, half feared, that Cicely would return shot for shot, justify her engagement, swear stoutly that she loved her lord. Instead, she sat crumpled up in her chair.
“Swear to me,” said Tiddy vehemently, “that you don’t know what I mean, that this Mr. Grimshaw is nothing to you, that you love Arthur Wilverley whole-heartedly, and I will go down on my knees and beg your pardon.”
Chandos silence . . .
“I thought so.”
III
Tiddy walked to the window and looked out upon the stable-yard. As she did so, the big stable clock struck four solemn notes. In one hour tea would be served on the lawn.
After the heavy rain of the morning, a breeze blew chill upon Tiddy’s cheek. But it failed to cool her mind, now burning with democratic indignation against conventions and traditions which had brought her beloved friend to this sorry pass. Was it an impasse? Had she driven Cicely into a cul-de-sac? When she did speak, what would she say? And what she might say was, of course, insignificant compared to what she ought to do.