Robert felt a little nonplussed. He had thought this particular idea emanated from Philippa herself, but as she spoke of it decidedly as his, she must have no doubt that he had suggested it. In any case, it was scarcely chivalrous to undeceive her.
“Perhaps you are right,” she murmured, after a moment. Presently, as Robert watched her, she smiled, slowly, indulgently, as a mother smiles at the waywardness of a little child. “How charming Cecily is!” she said. “She always appealed to me, even as a schoolgirl. I always wanted to protect her in some way. She was so fragile—so sweet. She had very little character,—as a child, I mean,—but then she was so graceful, so lovable, one scarcely missed it.”
Robert was silent. He felt vaguely uncomfortable.
“Oh, what a pity! What a pity!” she exclaimed, softly, after a pause. There was the tenderest commiseration and regret in her emotional voice. Robert felt his heart stirred painfully. He wanted to kiss her dress, but refrained.
“What is a pity?” he asked, in a low tone.
“That she doesn’t understand you, Fergus!”
“She thinks she does.”
“Ah, yes!—that is the tragedy.”
“Oh, we all have them!” said Robert, lightly.
She leaned a little towards him. “At least I do that, Fergus? Understand you?” Her voice, still low, was tremulous.