She looked up at the sky and watched the few small feathery clouds whose whiteness deepened the intensity of the blue. There surely could not be a lovelier blue than that,” she said. “I have been so little abroad, I cannot tell if it is true that English skies are never like those of the south. Is it so?”
“I am a poor authority,” he replied, “but I fancy if you said seldom, instead of never, you would be near the truth.”
There came another knock at the door. This time it was Parker.
“Miss Cicely,” she said, “Will you please be ready in ten minutes; the carriage is ordered for then.”
“I will come now,” said Cicely.
She stopped for a moment to put fresh water in one of her canary’s glasses, which had been overlooked.
“Why are you always called ‘Miss Cicely’ instead of ‘Miss Methvyn?’” asked Mr. Guildford abruptly.
Cicely laughed. “Have you noticed that?” she said. “I suppose it does seem strange. The reason is that when my sister and I were at home together—she is seven years older than I, but still we were companions—we could not bear being called by different surnames; her name before she was married was Bruce, Amiel Bruce; we thought it seemed as if we were not sisters really. So we always asked to be called Miss Amiel and Miss Cicely. That was how it began. Perhaps I should alter it now, but it is hardly—”
She stopped. Her companion was not looking at her; he did not see the quick rising of the pink flush over her face and neck.
“No, I think it would be a pity to change it. I like ‘Miss Cicely,’” he said. And he smiled as he recalled the mental picture he had first formed of the bearer of the name.