“I should be a very poor doctor, Miss Methvyn,” he said, with a very slight emphasis on the objectionable word, “if I contented myself with physicking my patients only. The good effects of fresh air and sunshine are more justly estimated than they used to be, I am glad to say.”
Cicely’s face sobered. “Yes,” she said quietly, “it is a very great blessing that people are growing wiser about such things.”
But the playfulness had died out of her manner. Forthwith Mr. Guildford blamed himself for his touchiness. “Surly idiot that I am,” he said to himself, “why should I be offended at her remembering what my position is?” And he set to work to disperse the little cloud his coldness had brought over the bright young face.
His efforts were successful. Notwithstanding his secluded life, he could talk well and interestingly when he chose; and women of even only ordinary intelligence are as quick to appreciate good talking as to see through and despise the superficial chatter in comparison with which silence is golden indeed. Cicely Methvyn’s intelligence was beyond the average, and its vigour and freshness were unchecked by the slightest touch of self-consciousness. And in this perhaps was the secret of her unusual charm. She forgot herself in the interest of discussion, she was eager to understand what she heard, completely frank in confessing her ignorance. But with it all, ever gentle, ever womanly and docile.
Mr. Guildford had never before seen her quite in the light in which this afternoon she appeared to him. She seemed younger and yet older, simpler and more girlish than he had hitherto imagined her, even while unconsciously allowing him glimpses of a mind of unusual grasp and by no means discreditable cultivation.
“When have you found time to read so much, Miss Methvyn?” he inquired at last, in surprise at her evidently thorough acquaintance with the subject they were discussing. It happened to be one of Colonel Methvyn’s pet hobbies, that of engraving.
Cicely blushed slightly; then glancing affectionately at her father. “It is papa who has taught me all I know about it,” she replied. “I have had unusual advantages—ever so many ‘extras’ in my schooling, thanks to him. I should have been very stupid not to have learnt a little. Shouldn’t I, father?”
Colonel Methvyn smiled. “She has had to be both son and daughter, you see. No wonder she is a little spoilt!” he said, with a sort of half apologetic pride that had in it something both pleasing and pathetic.
“Some kinds of spoiling don’t spoil,” said Mrs. Methvyn.
“Or some people won’t spoil?” suggested Mr. Guildford with a smile.