“Very ingenious,” he said. “Do I believe you? With my experience of your sex, my dear Cecily—certainly not.”
There was a silence. Then, as though coming to a decision, Mayne turned deliberately towards Cecily.
“I shall not go to-morrow,” he said. “You know you can rely upon me.”
“Yes,” returned Cecily, slowly, “I will remember it.”
He took her hand a moment, then released it, and went to the door. When it closed after him, Cecily found herself wondering whether she had or had not heard the hall door-bell a few moments before. She glanced at Robert, who was moving with slow, blind steps towards the window.
It was then that a sudden vision of the rose-garden at the Priory flashed upon her mental sight. Once more she saw Philippa in her husband’s arms. History, she reflected, with an impulse to break into dreadful laughter—history had repeated itself, with a slight difference. How ludicrous, how futile, how awful, life was with its senseless blending of the grotesque and tragic; materials for a heartrending farce, to be played before what monstrous spectators!
She stood in the middle of the room, her hands clenched and clasped tightly to her breast, in an agonized struggle with her laughter and her tears.
Had she really heard the hall bell or not?
The question, a vital one, as for some reason it seemed to her, was answered a moment later, when the door opened, and the maid announced, “Lady Ashford and Miss Devereux.”
They came in smiling, suave, unconscious, with outstretched hands. Cecily, smiling also, went forward with composure to receive her guests.