Meanwhile Cicely, in complete ignorance of the new and agonised tension in Nelly's mind, was thinking only of her own affairs. As soon as her after-luncheon cigarette was done, she sprang up and began to put on her hat.
'So you are going to the cottage?' said Nelly.
'Certainly. How do you like my boots?'
She held up one for inspection.
'I don't like them!'
'Fast, you think? Ah, wait till you see my next costume! High Russian boots, delicious things, up to there!' Cicely indicated a point above the knee, not generally reached by the female boot—'hand-painted and embroidered—with tassels—you know!—corduroy trousers!'
'Cicely!—you won't!'
'Shan't I—and a pink jersey, the new shade? I saw a friend of mine in this get-up, last week. Ripping! Only she had red hair, which completed it. Perhaps I might dye mine!'
They sallied forth into a mild winter afternoon. Nelly would have avoided the cottage and Farrell if she could, but Cicely had her own way as usual. Presently they turned into a side lane skirting the tarn, from which the cottage and its approaches could be seen, at a distance. From the white-pillared porch, various figures were emerging, four in all.
Cicely came to a stop.