“There is Happy Mead, isn’t there?”
Happy Mead, with its preposterous name, had long been a source of unhappiness to Lady Selina, because, in accordance with her principles, she had declined to spend much money upon a dilapidated house, tenantless for more years than she dared to reckon. Too big for people of small means, and not likely to appeal to the well-to-do accustomed to modern comforts, it was situated about a mile from Upworthy in a pretty but neglected garden.
“That ruin! What a suggestion!” She continued irritably: “I don’t pretend to understand you, Cicely. I should have thought that a girl not absolutely devoid of pride would have seen the propriety of leaving her own county for a season if she was offered the chance.”
Chandos silence countered this observation, and, looking at Cicely’s firm little chin, Lady Selina told herself that the child had really very little of the Danecourt pride. Having taken her own line over a stiff country, she would stick to it. The mother went on after a pause:
“I dislike London in war-time, but we must go there.”
Having delivered this ultimatum, Lady Selina indicated by her manner that she intended to compose herself to sleep, adding:
“I expect to lie awake half the night.”
However, Grimshaw, it appeared, had provided against this unpleasant probability. A mild sleeping-draught was sent from Pawley’s dispensary. Cicely, when she administered the Lethean liquid, regretted that so thoughtful a man had not sent enough for two.