“That young lady can get a move on,” declared Wilverley.
Grimshaw wondered whether he was contrasting Miss Tiddle with Cicely, not to the advantage of the latter. Quite sincerely he hoped that it might be so. In time—Wilverley would take time—Miss Tiddle might play Jill to his Jack. They would mount the hill of life together, and not trouble down it. The pail of water carried by such a pair would be used to irrigate the waste patches of others. He refused a lift back to the village in the big car, and watched it whirl off, Wilverley at the wheel and Miss Tiddle beside him.
IV
By this time Lady Selina was a-bed and Cicely was dining tête-à-tête with the parson. You may be sure that the good man played the host in the old-fashioned way. Port mellowed him, banishing disagreeable reflections. Cicely, unable to peer beneath a polished surface, tried to reflect herself in that surface and stared ruefully at a very blurred image. The parson’s slightly patronising tone when speaking of Grimshaw irritated her intensely, the more so because he laid an insistent finger upon what had irritated her.
“Your dear mother is no more responsible than I am. Why didn’t he say so? Heaven knows she needed a word of comfort. As her medical attendant, it was the man’s positive duty to cheer her up.”
Cicely said bravely:
“Mr. Goodrich, forgive me, but aren’t we all partly responsible?”
He blinked at her and sipped his wine.
“In a way, m’yes. Collectively the responsibility must be divided up. I deprecate violence.”
“So does Mr. Grimshaw.”