"Et ce cher Roxmouth?" she queried, suddenly, glancing appreciatively at the rippling gold-brown lights and shades of her friend's hair, the delicate hues of her complexion, and the grace of her form—"Has he been to see you in this idyllic retreat?"
Maryllia gave a slight gesture of wearied impatience.
"Certainly not! How can you ask such a question, Cicely! I left my aunt on purpose to get rid of him once and for all. And he knows it;—yet he has written to me every two days regularly since I came here!"
"Helas!—ce cher Roxmouth!" murmured Cicely, with a languid gesture imitative of the 'society manner' of Mrs. Fred Vancourt,—"Parfait gentilhomme au bout des ongles!"
Maryllia laughed.
"Yes,—Aunt Emily all over!" she said—"How tired I am of that phrase! She knows as well as anybody that Roxmouth, for all his airs of aristocratic propriety, is a social villain of the lowest type of modern decadence, yet she would rather see me married to him than to any other man she has ever met. And why? Simply because he will be a Duke! She would like to say to all her acquaintances—'My niece is a Duchess.' She would feel a certain fantastic satisfaction in thinking that her millions were being used to build up the decayed fortunes of an English nobleman's family, as well as to 'restore' Roxmouth Castle, which is in a bad state of repair. And she would sacrifice my heart and soul and life to such trumpery ambitions as these!"
"Trumpery ambitions!" echoed Cicely—"My dear, they are ambitions for which nearly all women are willing to scramble, fight and die! To be a Duchess! To dwell in an ancient 'restored' castle of once proud English nobles! Saint Moses! Who wouldn't sacrifice such vague matters as heart, life and soul for the glory of being called 'Your Grace' by obsequious footmen! My unconventional Maryllia! You are setting yourself in rank, heretical opposition to the conventionalities of society, and won't all the little conventional minds hate you for it!"
"It doesn't matter if they do,"—rejoined Maryllia—"I have never been loved since my father's death,—so I don't mind being hated."
"I love you!" said Cicely, with swift ardour—"Don't say you have never been loved!"
Maryllia caught her hand tenderly and kissed it.