“Yes,” she continued, “while you were telling me about that girl and her theories it all sounded so familiar.”
“She has adopted your husband’s theories, you think?”
Cecily shook her head with a faint smile.
“No. He has adopted hers. It’s a new phase with Robert. That’s why I’ve been suspecting a fresh influence lately.” She hesitated. “Robert’s like that,” she said at last. “He’s susceptible to every new impression. He reflects everything that——” She paused. “It’s the same with his work,” she went on. “He is always under some fresh influence. Lately it’s been swashbuckling. He’s made money out of that.”
“Why, his work used to be psychological!” exclaimed Rose. “Minute analysis and hair-splitting distinctions!”
“I know. That was one of the phases. There have been many masters since then. And now, I suppose, there will be as many—mistresses.”
She spoke with a quiet irony, more painful than any display of grief. It was the tone of a woman already so disillusioned that a fact more or less made comparatively little difference.
“Cecily,” ventured Mrs. Summers, almost timidly, “there may be nothing wrong.”
Cecily made a weary movement. “Do you know, that seems of little importance. It’s the other things that count, and when they’ve gone——” She did not finish the sentence. Outside, the garden, all vaporous, blue and silver, was like a vision. Softly, quite softly at first, a nightingale began to sing, each note falling like a drop of crystal water through the blue air. Both women were motionless till the song ceased as suddenly as it had begun.
“How beautiful!” murmured Rose.