“I think papa will be pleased to see you now,” said Cicely. “I always go to him about this time when my mother is out.”
They turned towards the house. “Did you not meet my mother and my cousin as you came from Greybridge?” she asked.
“Yes,” he replied. “I met them about half a mile from here—Miss Casalis is exceedingly pretty,” he remarked inconsequently.
“She is beautiful,” said Cicely.
“No, she is too small to be beautiful. She is just the perfection of prettiness.”
“Rose-jacynth to the finger tips,”
he observed reflectively.
Cicely looked up quickly. Her mother’s words recurred to her memory, but Mr. Guildford’s manner perplexed her. Was “the perfection of prettiness” his ideal? She walked on in a reverie, and her companion glanced at her once or twice without attracting her attention. Then he spoke.
“Do you think it is impertinent of me to make such remarks?” he asked with a little anxiety.
Cicely started, but the start turned into a smile.