Cicely’s eyes softened.
“And he hasn’t had dinner.”
“He didn’t look as if he wanted dinner. But I’m sure he wants you—desperately. He appeared to me worn and torn to tatters. Make no error; you can’t rig him up in your moss.”
“There’s not much moss left.”
“Lots of it, believe me. I haven’t time to argue with you, Cis. I can make a guess at what’s in your mind, because, as I say, you’re easy to read, a big asset, if you knew it, and probably the thing that appeals tremendously to Mr. Grimshaw. If he begins to think you’re not straight he’ll fly the track.”
“Not straight!”
Tiddy answered impatiently:
“You want to have it both ways. You are most awfully sorry for your mother; you would like to be sweet to her, to play the devoted daughter; but what will all that sort of thing be worth when she finds you out? And she will. You want to be just as sweet, perhaps sweeter, to Mr. Grimshaw, and all the time he’ll see you playing a part with your mother, and, worse, forcing him to do the same. Really, you’re risking his love and your mother’s respect.”
Cicely frowned. Moss-scraping hurts.
“I suppose you’d rush in to mother, and, on top of this awful calamity, hit her hard on the head when she’s lying down.”