“Yes. She came sailing across the road, panting for gossip, and immediately asked after you, hoping for the worst in every feature. I couldn’t resist disappointing her. Then she put on her face of mystery—you know it, and began, ‘My dear, we must have a talk——’ Of course I found I had to catch a train, and rushed off in the middle of a sentence, leaving her palpitating like her own motor-car. She doesn’t know the exact moment of your arrival, but you may be very sure she’ll be round before long.”
“To see whether the situation lends itself to elaborate or simple embroidery? She’s a real artist. Have people been talking much?” she added, after a moment. “But of course they have.”
“Privately, no doubt. That doesn’t matter. But, as far as I can discover, there’s been quite a successful conspiracy of mutual acceptance of Diana’s illness. The paragraphs about Dick have been useful, too.”
“What sort of paragraphs?” asked Cecily, slowly.
“Oh, things like, ‘We learn that Mr. Richard Mayne, the distinguished traveller and explorer, is engaged in active preparations for another expedition into the interior of Central Africa,’ and so on.”
“Is Philippa married?” asked Cecily, suddenly.
“No—apparently not, though why she should hesitate to make a good fellow unhappy, I don’t——”
Her words were cut short by the maid’s announcement of Lady Wilmot. Rose and Cecily had barely time to exchange glances before she was upon them, in emerald green brocade and feather trimming.
Like a Meredithian heroine she “swam” towards Cecily, whom she voluminously embraced.
“Welcome home, my dear,” she cried, and added in a gloomy whisper, “but why didn’t you come before? And where is Diana? And how, I should ask, is Diana?”