“Quarrel? No, but——” She paused. It was difficult even for Lady Wilmot to continue, before the impassivity of his face.
“I’m sorry Cecily is not looking well,” he said, deliberately mentioning the name he knew trembled on her tongue. “Diana told me. I went to see her yesterday. Diana’s grown,” he added, with a broad smile.
“Grown up. How do you like Philippa?” she inquired, in a slightly lower tone, as she walked with him to the door.
“There are questions of yours which I have always resolutely refused to answer.”
Lady Wilmot laughed with evident enjoyment.
“You felt what a little boy feels when some one sings a hymn in the drawing-room on week-days,” she declared. “Turn round. She’s telling Nevern what a beautiful soul he’s got.”
Involuntarily, Mayne followed the direction of her eyes. Mr. Nevern, a round-faced young poet, was leaning towards Miss Burton, and regarding her with an expression in which flattered vanity struggled with boyish admiration, and it was with difficulty that Mayne checked the laugh his hostess had been anxious to provoke.
“Good-bye,” he said. “I meant what I told you. You haven’t altered a bit—in any way.”
CHAPTER VI
ROSE SUMMERS had gone, and during the week which separated her departure from Mayne’s expected visit, Cecily spent the long solitary days in the garden. Early every morning Robert cycled to the station. There was always a little fuss and confusion before he started. Robert was more helpless than most men. He could never find anything. His cigarette-case was lost, and when it was discovered by Cecily under a heap of papers in his study, there were no cigarettes left. She must open a fresh box; she must run to find his notes without which he could not get on at the Museum. Always, since their marriage, Cecily had been at hand to perform these little services, which had gradually become a matter of habit to both of them.