Despite herself, Rose laughed. “That young woman” as designated by Cecily was irresistible.
“You’ll never be a saint, my dear!”
“A saint?” she repeated, absently, her mind evidently still preoccupied. “Why should I be? I’m only worried about Robert.” She continued to discuss in detail plans for persuading her husband to take a long holiday, and only roused from her musings upon the subject to glance hurriedly at the clock.
“Dick will be here in a minute!” she exclaimed. “You’re sure you don’t mind my leaving you? You know I wouldn’t under ordinary circumstances, but business is business, and I must see Coombs to-day.” She hurried away, and live minutes later looked in, putting on her gloves as she spoke.
“You’re all ready except your hat, aren’t you, Rose? You needn’t start before a quarter to three. It’s at the Court theatre, you know—quite close. Good-bye; I dare say I sha’n’t be very much later than you. I’d like to get a little rest before dinner to-night.”
She went out with a smiling nod, and left Rose meditating upon her prettiness, till a ring at the bell startled her, and Mayne was announced.
“You know Cecily’s not coming?” was her greeting as they shook hands.
“So she told me. Has to see her agent, or something.”
“Yes, a business matter. Sit down and have a cigarette; we’ve got half an hour before the matinee.”
Mayne complied. As he settled himself in the easy-chair opposite to her, Rose was conscious of very mixed emotions. She liked Mayne. She had always liked him, even in his hobbledehoy stage, when she had first discerned his boyish admiration for Cecily. She looked at him now, and sighed at the perversity of fate. This man, with his unobtrusive air of determination and quiet strength, was the man Cecily should have married. Why could she not have cared for him?