“Slam your doors,” said Lady Selina trenchantly, “in the face of indecency, impudence, and bad breeding. I admit sorrowfully that impudence can be amusing.”
“Would you have me slam my doors in Tiddy’s face?”
“Tiddy, as you call her, is your personal friend, and therefore the exception that proves the rule.”
There was a letter from Arthur beside Cicely’s plate, but she didn’t mean to open it till she was alone. Lady Selina marked and approved this abstention. Evidently, school had not rubbed off all the bloom. She kissed her daughter after breakfast, pinched her cheek, and whispered:
“Run into the garden, darling. Read your love-letter in the place where your lover asked you to be his. My thoughts will be with you.”
Cicely, however, out of sight of a pair of keen eyes, did not stroll into the topiary garden, but skirted it, making for the lower end of the park, where her beloved mare had been turned out. She would come trotting up at sight of her and rub her velvety nose against her hand. Sugar was becoming scarce, but Cicely had three or four lumps of it in her pocket.
The park looked invitingly secluded and spacious. Not a human being could be seen. The cattle were grazing on the higher slopes; the horses stood near the small lake, not far from some dumps of trees, into which they would wander when the sun approached the zenith. On the edge of the lake, almost hidden by tall reeds and bamboos, was a tiny boathouse which held an ancient punt. Cicely intended to read her letter in the punt.
Her grey mare, Chinchilla, neighed and then trotted up. Cicely fed and caressed her, thinking of the good hunts before the war. A couple of bunnies watched these endearments, ready to pop into their burrows if a terrier appeared. Upon the surface of the lake were some wild duck and moor-hens. Overhead a heron flapped lazily along.
Followed by the faithful and sugar-loving Chinchilla, Cicely made her way to the boat-house and entered it. Chinchilla mounted guard outside. Cicely gazed, as some girls do, at the firm writing on the envelope, indicating—to those who have skill in reading character from caligraphy—love of order, a sense of proportion, generosity, and rectitude. Cicely had no such skill, but Arthur’s handwriting pleased her because it was so unlike her own. And it never varied.
She opened the envelope.