“Philippa, my dear, has sandals and an exalted mind. I also suspect her of a certain amount of concealed jaeger,—and she thinks him very noble. He always speaks ‘quite nicely’ of his wife.” Mrs. Summers paused, the ironical smile deepening upon her lips. “Under these circumstances,” she continued, “the dénouement may be a little delayed.”
“Ah well!” observed Cecily, rising. “It’s a very common little story, no doubt.” There was an underlying ring of bitterness in her words which did not escape her friend’s notice, as she too got up from the bench. “You’d like to come to your room, Rose? Dinner’s at half-past seven.”
“Oh, common enough, of course,” returned Rose, in answer to her first remark. “There’s nothing particularly remarkable about Mr. Fergus Macdonald, I should imagine——”
She was stooping to pick up her handkerchief as she spoke, when a half-articulate exclamation made her sharply raise her head.
Cecily was standing looking at her. “Mr.——? I didn’t catch the name,” she said, in an odd voice.
“Fergus Macdonald,” repeated Rose. “She didn’t tell me his name, but I couldn’t help seeing a very soulful inscription in a book. Why, Cecily, do you know him?” She stammered over the last words, for while she spoke, every drop of color had ebbed away from the other woman’s face.
“Cecily!” she urged.
Cecily sank into the seat she had just left. There was silence for a moment, and then she began to laugh.
“Cecily!” said Mrs. Summers again. “Don’t, Cecily! Do you know him?”
“A little,” she replied. “He’s my husband.”