Christina's thanks were none the less warm, because, in her heart of hearts, she decided that no power on earth would ever induce her to make a home with her uncle and aunt.
"But I couldn't live with them, could I?" she said to Cicely an hour later, when the two sat together in the rose-coloured boudoir, which, at Christina's first visit to the house, had aroused her deep admiration. "Uncle Arthur is so—so very kind, but——"
"But, he moves along like a horse in blinkers, and he cannot see anything on either side of him, and not much in front."
"He says I am like Aunt Margaret, and that she only saw one point of view," Christina answered demurely.
"Then, my dear, it is evidently a family failing," Cicely retorted; "but never mind what Cousin Arthur says. You are to stay with me, and be as happy as you can, and because you are sweet enough still to look after Baba, that does not lower you in anyone's eyes."
"One argument Uncle Arthur used to try and induce me not to stay here, was, that you might marry again, and then, he said, I should be stranded."
The colour flew into Cicely's face, but she answered collectedly—
"Why should Cousin Arthur think absurdities of that kind? I——"
"He said you were very young, and—very attractive"—Christina laughed, a low, mischievous laugh, as the colour deepened on the other's face—"and he would have it, too, that people would want to marry you for your money and position."
"I have no intention of marrying again," Cicely said firmly, "and, if I did, I hope I should have sense enough to know whether I was wanted for my stupid position, or for myself."