“Miss Burton told me she was a school-fellow of yours,” he began. “Were you great friends?”
“Not particularly,” returned Cecily, taking her tea-gown from the wardrobe.
There was silence for a moment.
“She seems a nice sort of girl,” he continued, tentatively.
“She used to be pretty,” said Cecily, staring at herself in the glass as she took down her hair. “Is she pretty now?”
“Yes—rather. At least, yes, I suppose she is.” His voice was studiedly careless. “Mrs. Summers hasn’t altered much,” he continued. “Looks very young still.” He pushed the door wider, and came into the room as he spoke, still fidgeting with his tie.
“We’re a contrast in that respect, aren’t we?” said Cecily, slowly. “I’ve altered a great deal since we were married, haven’t I, Robert?” She still kept her eyes fixed upon the glass from which, as she arranged her hair, her own set face confronted her.
Robert was wandering rather aimlessly about the room. “Oh, I don’t know. Have you?” he replied, absently; then, glancing over her shoulder into the mirror, “You’re looking very washy just now,” he added.
His wife said nothing, and presently he flung himself on the window-seat, and began to play with the silver ornaments on the dressing-table.
“Oh, by the way, whom do you think I ran across at Waterloo this afternoon?” he broke out with a suddenness obviously premeditated. “Mayne—Dick Mayne, you know, just home from Alaska, or Siberia, or wherever it was.”