“Oh, on the contrary,” she answered, “these bright, brave young women who work for their living, and at intervals have nervous breakdowns, interest me enormously. It’s a new type to me.”
Kingslake’s face darkened at her flippant tone.
“Ah! you happy married women who are shielded from the world are rather slow to understand some of the truths of life,” he observed, a note of indignation struggling through the suavity of his tone.
“Is it only the lies we encounter then—we happy married women?” she returned, lightly. “That doesn’t speak well for the men who shield us!”
Cecily rose. “Come,” she said, “it’s nearly dinner-time.”
Upstairs, in the spare room to which she showed her friend, Rose turned round with sudden vehemence. “Little devil!” she exclaimed, pointing to the letter her cousin still held. “It’s a feminine masterpiece. Not one untrue statement, yet a lie from beginning to end.”
Cecily was silent. “Don’t!” she said at last, under her breath. “I’ve got to get through the evening.”
Rose glanced at her, and, without speaking again, let her go.
When Cecily entered her bedroom, Kingslake opened his dressing-room door.