They burst into confidential chuckles and told nothing more.
Both boys had always been extremely fond of Cecily, even though she had been away from home so much that the children had not been much together, and Cecily was five years older than Walter. But they were proud of her and had a very good time with Dick. Cecily was equally proud of them, but they, too, worried her.
The two weeks before Christmas brought with them an unceasing round of parties, dances of one kind and another. Cecily was tired before it began. She nearly suggested that they should decline all Christmas holiday entertaining, but neither Dick nor the boys gave her any chance for that. So she shopped for the children and made preparations all day for Christmas at home, and in the evening her only rest came while she leaned back against the cushions of the car as they drove to some club, house or hotel to dance and be gay for hours. When she got there she usually found her brothers there, too, for Carrington society was small enough to include all the possible young men from eighteen to thirty-five at its functions. Walter would be dancing with some pretty girl, held caressingly close in his arms, flirting furiously. Gerald might be dancing or he might be standing on the side lines looking debonairly on, or worse yet, already adjourned to some dark corner with a girl. It obsessed Cecily. She could not let them alone. She wanted them to be reserved, dignified even, in their gayety and they were not. To-morrow she knew they would tell hilarious tales to each other about the very girls they were flirting so scandalously with.
Gerald, bending over her, “It’s my dance, Cecily.”
She felt herself horrified at the very way he held her. “Don’t dance so close,” she protested. Then, “Who was that girl you were dancing with?”
“Helen Ramsay—pretty fluffy chicken, isn’t she?”
“You shouldn’t talk that way.”
“That’s what she is.”
“Gerald, haven’t you any respect for women—for yourself—that you can cheapen yourself so?”
“Where do you get that stuff, Cecily?”