“Suppose we use them for awhile, Cicely dear,” Rodney proposed. “I’d like to talk to you.”
“All right; I’m ready to talk, or to listen,” agreed Cis, dropping into the chair which she had at once pronounced “made for the lady of the house.” “Sounds queer to hear you call me Cicely, Rodney!” she added, laughing at him.
“I’ll have to learn to call you that in case we ever have company,” returned Rodney. “See, here, Cis, I sort of dread to say what I’m going to say; please help me to it. I thought I’d tell you after we were married, but you’re so keen to have things clear between you and Mr. Lucas, you’re so straight, I thought—Cis, if you were anyone else, anything else but what you are, I’d follow my own judgment, but you’re so crystal-clear—Cis, try to understand, and for pity’s sake don’t be prejudiced—There’s no sense in building up false theories of life—”
Cicely was sitting erect and still, her lips parted, her very muscles eloquent of tensity of mind.
“What are you stumbling over, Rod? What are you going to tell me?” she demanded.
“When I talked to you about my life, told you about it, you did not notice that I said nothing about three years of it, when I was in Chicago,” said Rodney.
Cis shook her head, groping backward in her memory to recall what he had said.
“Only that you were there for three years; that’s all I remember,” she said.
“How do you feel about second marriages, Cis?” asked Rodney. “Would you hate to be a second wife?”
“Oh!” Cis gasped, and sank back in her chair.