“You are horribly unkind. You—you are spoiling everything. Heaps of girls, nice girls, marry without—without f—f—feeling p—p—passionate. And their marriages turn out jolly well.”
She ended defiantly.
Tiddy, rather ashamed of her outburst, ashamed, also, to discover that her eyes were wet, said without turning:
“Those anæmic sort of girls are not in love with somebody else, as you are. That’s what makes this thing indecent. What you propose doing is an outrage on Arthur.”
Arthur. . . .
Instantly Cicely became alert. Tiddy had never spoken of Wilverley’s lord as “Arthur.” The name had slipped from her lips naturally and with a soft inflection that was unmistakable.
“Tiddy.”
“Yes?”
“Look at me, please. I want to see your face.”
Tiddy turned; Cicely rose. Melodrama is as catching as measles. Cicely approached her friend, speaking intensely, in what is called in theatre-land a stage whisper: