“Yes, that’s my news!” Jeanette triumphed over her. “Paul says, Paul, whom I’m going to marry! Paul Ralph Randolph, the confessor, and almost martyr!”
“Martyr nothing!” Cis relapsed under the shock into her earlier habits of speech.
“He’s no martyr if he marries you, Jeanette Lucas! You’re too lovely to marry any mere man. I always did think you were superfinely fine! But this is great news, my dearest, and nobody is gladder than red-haired Cis!”
“Nobody is nicer than red-haired Cis!” retorted Jeanette. “I was afraid you’d be a little shocked, because you knew I was engaged before. But, Cis, though it hurt me dreadfully when you let me discover Herbert Dale’s character, and I was wretched after it, it was the sickness of disenchantment; the shock cured me of all love for him. I half hoped I might be a nun; I spoke of it to you once, but it isn’t my place. When Paul asked me to marry him—three days ago; he wrote me—I knew how I loved him; I hadn’t realized it before. Oh, my dear, I’m so happy and so humbled!”
“I don’t mind how happy you are, but not humbled,” Cis protested, kissing her over and over again.
“And I want you happy, splendid Cicely,” Jeanette murmured.
“Oh, as to that, I’m sure to be; it’s the temperament of my hair,” said Cis, turning away slightly. “But I’d like to be useful, fill a place, find the right place to fill. Sister Bonaventure says no habit for poor Cicely! I wonder what I’m meant for; nothing in particular, probably. Reliable secretary, run a typewriter accurately, get under the skins of youngsters when they need entertaining! Well, it’s at least a harmless life.”
There was a note in Cicely’s voice new to it. Jeanette instantly pounced upon her. “Lonely, Cis? Not perfectly happy? These past days made things harder? They’ve been cruelly hard in themselves, I’m sure of that!”
Cis swung around to face her.
“It’s not that I still want Rod; don’t think that!” she cried. “I knew I didn’t, but I know it better now. These days were hard, but they were a comfort, too. I’m not lonely, not exactly; perhaps, a little. I don’t know what I want. I miss Miss Braithwaite, my life with her. Perfectly happy? I’m twenty-three; the ‘first fine careless rapture’ is over then, I suppose. I want a place to fill; I want a work to do that will take every bit of me to do it.”