“My dear Tibby, it has ceased to exist,” laughed the Duchessa.
It was a very reassuring little laugh. Miss Tibbutt knew it to be quite absurd that, in spite of it, she still could not entirely dispel that vague sense of uneasiness. It spoilt the keen pleasure she ordinarily took in the garden, especially in the evening and most particularly in the month of June. She had a real sentiment about the month of June. From the first day to the last she held the hours tenderly, lingeringly, loath to let them slip between her fingers. There were only three more days left, and now there was this tiny uneasiness, which prevented her mind from entirely concentrating on the happiness of these remaining hours.
And then she gave herself a little mental shake. It was, after all, a selfish consideration on her part. If there were cause for uneasiness, she ought to be thinking of Pia rather than herself, and if there were no cause—and Pia had just declared there was not—she was being thoroughly absurd. She gave herself a second mental shake, and looked towards the house, whence a young footman was just emerging with a tray on which were two coffee cups and a sugar basin. He put the tray down on a small rustic table near them, and went back the way he had come, his step making no sound on the soft grass.
“I wonder what it feels like to be a servant, and have to do everything to time,” she said suddenly. “It must be trying to have to be invariably punctual.”
Now, as a matter of fact, Miss Tibbutt was exceedingly punctual, but then it was by no means absolutely incumbent upon her to be so; she could quite well have absented herself entirely from a meal if she desired. That, of course, made all the difference.
“You are punctual,” said the Duchessa laughing.
“I know. But it wouldn’t in the least matter if I were not. You could go on without me. You couldn’t very well go on if Dale had forgotten to lay the table, or if Morris had felt disinclined to cook the food.”
“No,” agreed the Duchessa. And then, after a moment, she said, “Anyhow there are some things we have to do to time—Mass on Sundays and days of obligation, for instance.”
Miss Tibbutt nodded. “Oh, of course. But that’s generally only once a week. Besides that’s different. It’s a big voice that tells one to do that—the voice of the Church. The other is a little human voice giving the orders. I know, in a sense, one ought to hear the big voice behind it all; but sometimes one would forget to listen for it. At least, I know I should. And then I should simply hate the routine, and doing things—little ordinary everyday things—to time. I’d just love to say, if I were cook, that there shouldn’t be any meals to-day, or that they should be an hour later, or an hour earlier, to suit my fancy.”
The Duchessa laughed again.