“He’s top hole at games. After leaving Winchester he played cricket for his county. I’d bet sixpence that he plays tennis better than anyone about here. He’s an athlete all over. He won’t play pat-ball with me. No such luck!”
Lady Selina, after a penetrating glance at her daughter’s face, thought to herself: “I shall see that he doesn’t.” Then she kissed Cicely and laughed.
“We must be decently civil, my dear. That’s all.”
With that she went her way, not without misgivings. Why was it easier for her to understand her son rather than her daughter? Brian, she felt sure, would see eye to eye with his mother—a Chandos every inch of him. But Cicely baffled her. Had she made a hero of this young surgeon? Did she reckon breeding of no account? Still, her blush at mention of Wilverley’s name was reassuring. Later, at Evensong, during a dull sermon, she beguiled herself happily with a vision of Cicely and Wilverley kneeling on the chancel steps, with the lawn sleeves of a bishop raised above them in solemn benediction. She prayed fervently that it might be so. And Cicely, at the same moment, sitting demurely by her august mother, was wondering what sort of a woman Henry Grimshaw would marry. Did his fancy prefer blondes to brunettes? Was he engaged already? What deft fingers he had. Hardly had she felt the touch of them on her lower eyelid. But she had thrilled. The fact provoked her. She decided finally that he was the nicest young man she had ever met.
Perhaps it was as well for Lady Selina’s admirable peace of mind, not to mention her robust Anglican piety and faith in what was established, that she could not read Cicely as she read her son.
CHAPTER III
CUPID SPEEDS HIS SHAFTS
I
Grimshaw went back to London to pack up his traps, and on the following Tuesday dined with his maternal uncle, Sir Dion Titherage, at the Parthenon. Sir Dion, lately raised to the dignity of knighthood, with an excellent practice in Belgravia, chiefly amongst elderly ladies, had paid—as has been said—for his nephew’s schooling, and regarded the young man with a paternal eye. Long ago Sir Dion had led to the altar of St. Paul’s, Knightsbridge, one of his well-to-do patients, much older than himself. There had been no children. Lady Titherage was now a confirmed hypochondriac, but likely to make old bones, thanks to the ministering care and skill of that optimist, her husband.
A small table at the farther end of the immense dining-room had been reserved for Sir Dion and his guest. Through a big window a glimpse could be obtained of lawn and trees, and, beyond, the façade of a famous terrace. Dining at such a table, a member of the learned professions could reflect pleasantly upon the fact that the privileged occupiers of that terrace must each possess, on a reasonable average, at least twenty thousand a year. But few members of the Parthenon dined at their club. Here and there, oases in the desert, were bishops, who contented themselves with simple fare. Sir Dion pointed out these pillars of the Establishment, a Royal Academician, a hanging judge, an eminent architect, and the club bore, who dined at the Parthenon nearly every night, and kept sensitive and retiring members at bay. Sir Dion said, with a chuckle:
“I don’t dare dine here without a guest, my boy; and even then he yaps at me—he yaps at me. Really, it’s a sad breach of our unwritten rules. This is recognised as a Temple of Silence and Snooze. Conversation is very properly barred.”