“Bob is more to me than anyone in the world,” she cried. “And I would rather keep any other man waiting.”
“Really? But I shouldn't think it very likely that you'll ever have to trouble about other young men, Cecilia; you're not the sort. Too thin and scraggy.” Mrs. Rainham surveyed her own generous proportions in the glass, and gathered up her gloves with a pleased air. For the moment she could not possibly believe that anyone could have referred to her as “an over-ornamented pie.” “Good-bye, Cecilia; don't be late for tea.” She sailed down the stairs.
Even the bang of the hall door failed to convey any relief to Cecilia. For the second time she toiled upstairs, to the bare freshness of her little room. Generally, it had a tonic effect upon her; to-day it seemed that nothing could help her. She leaned her head against the window, a wave of homesick loneliness flooding all her soul. So deep were its waters that she did not hear the hall door open and close again, and presently swift feet pounding up the stairs. Someone battered on her door.
“Cecilia! Are you there?”
She ran to open the door. Bob stood there, a short, muscular fellow, in Air Force blue, with twinkling eyes. She put out her hands to him with a little pitiful gesture.
“Don't say that horrible name again,” she whispered. “If anyone else calls me Cecilia I'll just go mad.”
Bob came in, and flung a brotherly arm round her shoulders.
“Has it been so beastly?” he said. “Poor little Tommy. Oh, Tommy, I saw the over-ornamented pie sailing down the street, and I dived into a side alley until she'd gone out of range. I guessed from her proud and happy face that you'd been scarified.”
“Scarified!” murmured Cecilia. But Bob was not listening. His face was radiant.
“I couldn't wait in the park any longer,” he said. “I had to come and tell you. Tommy, old thing—I'm demobilized!”