True, that her very uncertainty was part of her charm; but, without swerving in his unshakable loyalty to her, he felt himself occasionally wishing that Margaret had some of the transparent candour of his little cousin, Cicely Redesdale. Cicely was incapable of dark secrets, or hidden, mysterious actions; she and Baba were children together, and one was scarcely more innocent and crystal pure than the other—which reflections brought him by easy stages to his cousin's estates, and his own trusteeship; and the memory of a paper needing Cicely's signature, made him retrace his steps to his own chambers, and thence to Eaton Square, where he found Cicely and her small daughter enjoying the delights of tea together, in the bright nursery at the top of the house.
"Jane has got a sick mother," Cicely explained dolefully; "Jane was imperatively needed at home, at an hour's notice—and behold me, head nurse and nursery-maid rolled into one, and Baba in the seventh heaven of bliss. If you want any tea, Rupert, you must have it here—hot buttered toast and all. Dawson won't approve, but I am tired of trying to live up to him." Dawson was the butler, a magnificent personage who had only condescended to anything more insignificant than a ducal mansion, in consideration of Mr. Redesdale's generosity in the matter of wages; and Dawson regarded any departure from the orthodox, with disapproving eyes.
"You will never succeed in reaching Dawson's criterion of correctness," Rupert laughed; "meanwhile, nursery tea is much jollier than the drawing-room meal. We can eat double as much, and we can spread our own jam."
"But you know, Rupert, I can't spend my whole life in the nursery," Cicely began, when the appetites of the baby and the big man had been partially satisfied. "Baba has chosen a new nurse for herself, but—I can't let her decide anything so important; I am afraid you will call me quixotic if I say I am half inclined to—
"Is it the young person—James's young person?" her cousin broke in. "I knew that girl with the green eyes and shabby clothes was making indelible marks on your kind heart. But—you know nothing about her, dear, and, as you told me, you must have unimpeachable references."
"Rupert, to remind a woman of the things she has said in a remote past, is like driving a pig towards the north, when you want him to go there. When you have a wife, you will understand the inwardness of my remark."
"I shall never have a wife," was the quick retort, "and am I to infer from your remark that you are intending to engage a nurse who cannot produce the necessary references?"
"I don't know what she can produce yet, but I have written to ask your green-eyed friend of the shabby hat, to come and see me, and—then I thought we could talk things over."
"Then 'things' are a foregone conclusion," said Rupert, with a laugh. "I know you, Cicely. The girl seemed to have a way with children; she looked and spoke like a lady, and——"
"And Baba loved her"; Cicely lowered her voice, but the child, absorbed in putting a consignment of dolls to bed, gave no heed to her elders; "and ever since the girl came here, Baba has gone on saying: 'Baba would like that pretty lady to live with her; can't the pretty lady come?' And sometimes children and dogs have wonderful instincts about people, don't they? Baba's instinct may be just the right one."