“I only knew it for certain last night. I’m superstitious about speaking of things until they’re certain. I’m to play in Wigmore Street on the third.”
Her cousin was all interest now. She drew her chair a little nearer and carelessly pushed her letters off the edge of the table.
“Have you chosen a gown? We’ll send for the motor and choose one this morning. That’s important, you know ... especially in England where they recognize good clothes but never wear them.”
“I can’t go this morning.... I’m going to Philippe.”
“To-morrow then,” said Lily. “I shall go over to London for the concert and bring Jean back with me.... Perhaps César can go too.”
“Not him!” Ellen interrupted sullenly. “He’d spoil everything.”
For a moment the two cousins regarded each other in silence. In Ellen’s face there was a look of bitterness that appeared more and more frequently of late, a sort of devil-may-care expression that puzzled Lily and disturbed her. They had never recognized the breach before ... not, at least, openly.
“Why shan’t César come?” she put forward gently.
“He hates me! I know that!”
Lily endeavored to pour oil on the waters. “It’s not true. You’re rude to each other ... both of you. Why is it? There’s no reason. He doesn’t really dislike you?”