Gerald’s intolerance hurt. The situation grew out of all proportions for Cecily. Gerald was being corrupted. He must be taken out of this. He must be reasoned with, shown that he was making himself cheap.
But he did not take to the reasoning kindly.
“What’s the matter with all of you? Mother rowing because I’m a few hundred dollars short; dozens of fellows are a few thousands; and now you making a male vamp out of me. What do you want me to do? Study for the ministry and wear blinders so I can’t see the girls?”
“I hate to see you with such stupid, inconsequent girls. That’s what bothers me. I hate to see you get flippant”—she stumbled in her speech—“valuing love lightly.”
“Lord, I’m not in love with the little Ramsay, if that’s what’s on your mind.”
“I know you’re not. Why play at it?”
“Fun!” said Gerald.
He left her and Cecily sat thinking of his last word and how she had come to hate it. It typified all the cheapness she despised. It amazed her to see how, during these few weeks of semi-unwilling participation in “fun” she had come to formulate a philosophy which definitely excluded it. Where she had been indifferent, she was now condemnatory.
From where she sat on the veranda she could see the ballroom. Dick was looking for her, Walter was dancing, not with a girl his own age, but with Fliss. Fliss was dancing just as Helen Ramsay had danced, close up to Walter, head against his shoulder, and Walter was talking to her in admiration. That was clear. An unaccustomed anger rose in Cecily. Her bodily weariness and her spasm of anger left her faint. As she turned, shuddering a little, she saw Matthew.
“Aren’t you well?”