But here Miles struck. No power on earth, he declared, would induce him to attempt to “festoon” a hole in the accepted fashion.
“When I want one I’ll make it with the nearest implement that comes handy. There are always my teeth as a last resource. It’s silly nonsense cutting out a hole and immediately proceeding to sew it up! Time enough for that when it begins to split—”
“Plucked! Hopelessly plucked!” cried Cynthia, rolling her eyes in dismay. Then the spectacles dropped off her nose, and she joined in the general laughter, and forgot her rôle of mentor for the rest of the evening.
But it was not only in the matter of amusement that Cynthia made herself invaluable during those last trying days; she seemed ever on the watch for opportunities of service. If anything was overlooked or late in delivery, she was ready to drive to the shop, and bring it home. She invited Pam to lunch and tea, thereby setting her elders free and keeping the child happy and occupied, and she steadily refused to accompany Miles and Betty on any of their expeditions, thereby earning her friend’s undying gratitude, though perhaps Miles himself was less appreciative of her self-denial. Her turn for a quiet word came only on the last day of all, when Miles accompanied her for the few yards which intervened between the two houses, and stood on the doorstep to wish her farewell.
His face was white, and his words came out with even more than the usual difficulty.
“It’s been—a jolly good thing for me—knowing you for these last months. You’ve been—a help! If I ever turn out anything of a man—it will be a good deal—your doing!”
Cynthia stared at him with her beautiful grave eyes.
“Mine?” she cried in amazement. “Oh, why? What have I done?”
“You’ve been yourself!” said Miles gruffly. “Good-bye!”
He held out his big hand, and Cynthia’s little fingers closed tightly round it.