We shall behold Cicely with clearer vision “on her own” at Wilverley.

She plunged eagerly into hard work, thereby winning an approving smile from “Matron,” an uncompromising “pro,” not likely to favour a young woman merely because she happened to belong to the “county.” Exalted above “Matron” sat Mrs. Roden, Wilverley’s sister, who had married one of the Quaker Rodens, a pillar of the Liberal Party, and as indefatigable as his wife in what he considered to be “good works.” George Roden was supposed to be in touch with the masses, although he was a rich man. As an M.P. and a subordinate member of the Government, he pulled many strings, being recognised as a peacemaker and intermediary between Labour and Capital. His wife shared his views. In and out of season Mrs. Roden preached solemnly the doctrines of adjustment. She adjusted her own life and the lives of others, particularly the lives of others. As an ardent democrat she contended that all classes, not merely Labour, should be fairly treated in the New Commonwealth at last to be discerned rising superbly above the troubled waters. Fortunately, inasmuch as the good lady was something of a bore, we are not much concerned with her or her excellent husband. But she exercised influence upon Cicely at a moment when the girl was most sensitive to outside impressions.

Mrs. Roden, after serious consideration, decided that Cicely was destined to be the mother of Wilverley’s children. Motherhood may be described as her cheval de bataille. Upon this charger she rode boldly into the future, couching her lance against that dragon Infant Mortality. Cicely’s physique, her feminine curves, her clear complexion and candid eyes, fortified the conviction that she would nurse her babies, and Mrs. Roden said so, with no squeamish reserves, to Wilverley himself.

“Good heavens, Mary, what things you think of!”

Mrs. Roden replied austerely:

“I focus my thoughts, Arthur, on the essential. Large families will be the crying need of the next decade.”

“I hope my kids won’t cry.”

“Pray don’t be flippant! I am honoured that you have given me your confidence. Cicely is young, but I was nineteen when I married George. I was a mother at twenty. I have never regretted it. I deplore years wasted in bunny-hugging and fox trots. If this war trains young girls to take themselves more seriously it will not have been waged in vain. I shall talk to dear little Cicely.”

“Not—not about my babies?”

“You can leave all that to me.”

“Cicely, bless her! is a bit of a tomboy. I’m sure she would shrink from—from—you know.”

Mrs. Roden enjoined silence, uplifting a large, capable hand.

“My dear Arthur, you have the disabilities of your sex. Never having suffered from excess of modesty yourself, you imagine that young girls are immaculately innocent and ignorant. Pray purge your mind of that! They are nothing of the sort. They discuss everything nowadays with a refreshing candour that is not the least significant sign of the times. Now for a word of advice to you. If you want her, go for her—go for her! Young girls fall easily in love with the first energetic bidder. I take it you are the first?”

“I—I think so, Mary.”

“Then I repeat—go for her!”

Seldom indeed did Mrs. Roden use expressions even approximating to slang. Wilverley saw that her interest was seriously engaged.