"It's just to ask may I go out?—with Mason, of course—to do some shopping?"
"Wouldn't you rather wait for me? I shall be ready about twelve."
"Well ... you see, Madre,"—a faint flush stole into the clear skin as she spoke. "Christmas is getting very near and I've no presents at all, as yet. And——" a sudden excuse seemed to strike her—"I rather thought ... I'd get yours."
"Oh, very well." Helen laughed, "I mustn't trespass on any 'secret.'"
Cydonia averted her brown eyes, conscious of a twinge of conscience.
"Thank you, Madre, dear." She stooped and kissed her mother gratefully, hesitated for a moment, and breathed an indistinct "Good-bye."
But once outside the front door her spirits began to rise. She looked unusually animated, beautiful in her costly furs.
The maid shuffled along beside her, a subdued black form of indeterminate shape, rather like an unwilling retriever, dragged by an invisible leash.
They crossed Berkeley Square and swerved up to the right into Bond Street. Here Cydonia's step quickened as she glanced eagerly about her. She paused once or twice before a shop, gazing abstractedly into the window, and bought a bunch of Parma violets, which she pinned on to her white fox.
Then, with the gold head proudly carried, shining in the wintry sun like a halo under her black hat, she moved on, very sedate, avoiding all admiring glances.