Spontaneity is one of civilization’s most perfect flowers, and Cecilia wasn’t as yet civilized enough to have acquired it. She followed the others with a certain dry rigidity that I found perfectly charming for her age and the time she had been in the world.
“No, no; you can’t come,” said Mrs. Massingbyrd, waving us back. “You’ll know soon enough. Don’t tell, Cecilia;” and she caught the child by the arm and carried her along, as they made for the stable.
There was something preposterous in the air. I have known Felicia long enough to recognize a certain irresponsible little laugh as a danger signal. Presently the children came back, Mrs. Massingbyrd with Cecilia still tucked under her wing.
“Yes, it’s the strangest thing,” she was chattering, “the impression I produce on strangers! First they always call me Miss Massingbyrd, then, later, they always ask where Massingbyrd is! Not one person in a thousand will believe I’m a real, bona-fide, dyed-in-the-wool widow!”
Cecilia’s eyes were open wide. I could see in her attitude that she didn’t think it good taste to joke about being taken for a divorcée. Nor did I, and I wondered what my friend was up to, for generally Mrs. Massingbyrd adapts herself to her company with all the flexibility in the world.
I followed them into the house, and I was in time to see as pretty a little tableau as ever was presented on the stage.
Discovered on the piazza was Almington, and at sight of him my little ingénue, Cecilia, hesitated, and was lost in a sea of blushes.
Mrs. Massingbyrd ran forward and greeted him gayly and gladly. Mamma’s training came to Cecilia’s aid; she gathered herself together and, in spite of burning cheeks and very bright eyes, advanced to meet Almington in good order.
He greeted her pleasantly but indifferently, and turned eagerly to Mrs. Massingbyrd.
“You’re none the worse for your shipwreck, I hope,” he asked.