Cicely murmured what was expected of her. Lady Selina read aloud other letters of warm congratulation, with a sly jibe at some of the well-wishers:
“Should we hear from these old cats if you were marrying Tom or Dick?”
“I don’t know them, mother.”
“You will, my dear. They’ll attend to that. I see them licking their lips over your cream.”
“If they are like that, I needn’t know them.”
“But you must. In your position a lot of boring, self-seeking people will impose themselves on you. But you can do with them as I did—entertain them en gros. Make your small parties as select as possible.”
Throughout breakfast Lady Selina dealt delicately but amusingly with modern society. She had withdrawn from Mayfair after the death of her husband, selling the lease of a comfortable house in Curzon Street; but she had never lost touch with “the people who count.” And you may be sure that it was not disagreeable for her to reflect that Lord Wilverley would pass thresholds with his wife which he would never cross without her. But she would have perished at the stake rather than say this.
As she talked, Cicely was sensible that the diamond-and-pearl tiara had brought down this freshet of worldly-wise counsel and reminiscence. Lady Selina’s eyes lingered upon her daughter’s hair. She saw the tiara flashing and scintillating in sanctuaries where innumerable wax candles were still provided instead of electric light. The mother tasted again bygone triumphs. She ended in a minor key:
“Of course, society has changed for the worse. Half a dozen houses, not more, preserve inviolate the old conditions and traditions. I see no reason why you, my dear child, quite unostentatiously, should not enforce the golden rule.”
“What is the golden rule, mother?”