“I never saw any one quite so infatuated.” Mrs. Summers’ reply was emphatic.
“And now he speaks of me ‘quite nicely.’... It seems strange, doesn’t it?” She spoke very quietly, as though she were tired.
“I shall never forgive myself!” murmured Rose, turning her head away.
Cecily was roused. “Don’t worry about that!” she exclaimed. “It’s almost a relief to know that there’s something definite—that it’s not only just boredom—with me.” Before Rose could speak, she added, hastily, as though with a determination to get out the words, “Do you know he’s invited Dick Mayne to stay here?”
Rose’s dress rustled with her quick movement of surprise. “He! Invited Dick Mayne?” she echoed.
“Yes—Dick Mayne—to amuse me,” replied Cecily. In the moonlight Rose saw the bitter little smile on her lips.
“But surely he remembers—why, he used to be as jealous as——”
“Hush!” exclaimed Cecily, with a mockery at which her friend winced. “Jealousy is a vulgar passion!”
“Don’t!” murmured Mrs. Summers, vaguely.
“No,” returned Cecily, after a moment. “Because I suppose there’s a good deal to be said for Robert. I didn’t understand the game. I didn’t understand men a bit when I married, Rose, though I knew so many. And I was no baby either. I was five-and-twenty.”