Howard Ensign was following Cecily’s eyes.
“Isn’t Mrs. Allenby a lot of fun?” he asked.
“Oh, yes,” answered Cecily, mechanically, “lots of fun.”
“She gives everybody such a good time.”
Fun. That was it. Fun, that god whom they all worshiped. Like a heathen god, like a great bright image, casting great shadows. Queer thought. She sat in the shadow while they worshiped the brightness. An impulse came to Cecily to call to Fliss to stop. She was pinning a flower in Dick’s buttonhole. It was a wager or a joke. Everybody was laughing. She had no right to touch Dick like that. Dick didn’t care. Dick had no pride, no self-respect, no respect for love,—or he wouldn’t let her touch him like that. She was caressing him.
Fliss caught her glance. “Mustn’t, Dick,” she said, laughingly. “Your wife’s looking at me. She has her till-death-do-us-part look on.”
Her voice carried and they turned to look at Cecily—all the people at the end of the table—merrily, jocularly. Cecily tried to smile, tortured by the glances that seemed to be penetrating her thoughts. Dick looked a little annoyed.
“Don’t be worried, Cecily.” Fliss wouldn’t leave her alone.
“I wasn’t worried.” Now they were laughing. That wasn’t what she should have said. She should have been light, gay, debonair, flippant. Why? Because that was what they expected.
Like a match to a gathered pile of brush were the comments to Cecily’s resentment. She was suddenly angry as she had never been angry before in her life—cruelly angry. She wanted to hurt them all—Fliss, Della most. But her opportunity did not come till later.