Cydonia, obediently, re-threaded her needle and proceeded to make minute stitches in the narrow strip of lace.
Mrs. Cadell still watched her with restless dark eyes.
"Do you like doing that?"
Cydonia raised her head.
"Oh yes, Madre." Her voice was mildly surprised, "I'm copying that Byzantine piece we found at Verona. Don't you remember, dear?—the day it rained so hard."
Her mother smiled. "Would you care to go back there again?—to Italy, I mean? I really think we must stay at Venice for Easter—you'd like that beautiful service at St. Mark's—and then"—her thoughts ran on—"we could go through the Dolomites and perhaps put in a week in Vienna. What do you think of the plan yourself?"
"It sounds very nice." Cydonia's even voice held no enthusiasm, and again Mrs. Cadell gave a little frown. She had the net impression that had she said Margate her daughter would have acquiesced with equal serenity.
"Well, it's some way off yet." She was gathering up her book when the door was burst open and a short fat man, red-faced and impatient, bounced into the room as though propelled by an invisible force behind.
"Just looked in, Helen, to say I'm going now. Back to dinner eight sharp and bringing Cleaver Jones. Why, Cydonia!"—he paused by his daughter's side, hands thrown up in jesting admiration. "How smart we are!— Is this for the Bishop?" With clumsy affection he caught her by the chin.
"Give your father a kiss ... there's my good girl!" Dutifully she pressed her lips to his rough cheek. Then, bustling round, in his harsh loud voice he added a final instruction to his wife.