She awoke at the usual time, jumped out of bed, went to the window, and gazed into the garden. The incomparable freshness of early morning fell like dew upon her still tired mind. The rains of two days had been absorbed by the thirsty earth; the sun shone again in cloudless skies.

And Brian lay dead in France!

It was delightful to think that all her memories of him were happy. But why had he been taken and she left? What design underlay these heart-breaking separations? They had been so jolly together. But she recalled, with an odd pang that always, always, they had sought the sunshine and shunned the shadows. Love of ease had enwrapped them from the cradle. And if Grimshaw were right, if love of ease were a parasitic growth like moss, if it strangled other growths, must it be raked out ruthlessly and cast as rubbish to the void? He had said, upon that memorable evening when Arthur and he met for the first time, when subconsciously she had compared the two men, arriving intuitively at a right understanding of each, that some great discipline might change character. What effect had Brian’s death had upon her?

She couldn’t answer the insistent question percolating through jaded tissues.

At breakfast Lady Selina glowed maternally. No mention was made of Snitterfield and Gridley. A letter from Lord Saltaire was read aloud:

Lady Selina laid down the letter and said solemnly:

“Your uncle is the most generous of men. The tiara is simply magnificent—pearls and diamonds. It won’t need re-setting. It was bought in the rue de la Paix.”

Cicely murmured what was expected of her. Lady Selina read aloud other letters of warm congratulation, with a sly jibe at some of the well-wishers:

“Should we hear from these old cats if you were marrying Tom or Dick?”

“I don’t know them, mother.”

“You will, my dear. They’ll attend to that. I see them licking their lips over your cream.”

“If they are like that, I needn’t know them.”

“But you must. In your position a lot of boring, self-seeking people will impose themselves on you. But you can do with them as I did—entertain them en gros. Make your small parties as select as possible.”

Throughout breakfast Lady Selina dealt delicately but amusingly with modern society. She had withdrawn from Mayfair after the death of her husband, selling the lease of a comfortable house in Curzon Street; but she had never lost touch with “the people who count.” And you may be sure that it was not disagreeable for her to reflect that Lord Wilverley would pass thresholds with his wife which he would never cross without her. But she would have perished at the stake rather than say this.

As she talked, Cicely was sensible that the diamond-and-pearl tiara had brought down this freshet of worldly-wise counsel and reminiscence. Lady Selina’s eyes lingered upon her daughter’s hair. She saw the tiara flashing and scintillating in sanctuaries where innumerable wax candles were still provided instead of electric light. The mother tasted again bygone triumphs. She ended in a minor key:

“Of course, society has changed for the worse. Half a dozen houses, not more, preserve inviolate the old conditions and traditions. I see no reason why you, my dear child, quite unostentatiously, should not enforce the golden rule.”

“What is the golden rule, mother?”

“Slam your doors,” said Lady Selina trenchantly, “in the face of indecency, impudence, and bad breeding. I admit sorrowfully that impudence can be amusing.”

“Would you have me slam my doors in Tiddy’s face?”

“Tiddy, as you call her, is your personal friend, and therefore the exception that proves the rule.”

There was a letter from Arthur beside Cicely’s plate, but she didn’t mean to open it till she was alone. Lady Selina marked and approved this abstention. Evidently, school had not rubbed off all the bloom. She kissed her daughter after breakfast, pinched her cheek, and whispered:

“Run into the garden, darling. Read your love-letter in the place where your lover asked you to be his. My thoughts will be with you.”

Cicely, however, out of sight of a pair of keen eyes, did not stroll into the topiary garden, but skirted it, making for the lower end of the park, where her beloved mare had been turned out. She would come trotting up at sight of her and rub her velvety nose against her hand. Sugar was becoming scarce, but Cicely had three or four lumps of it in her pocket.

The park looked invitingly secluded and spacious. Not a human being could be seen. The cattle were grazing on the higher slopes; the horses stood near the small lake, not far from some dumps of trees, into which they would wander when the sun approached the zenith. On the edge of the lake, almost hidden by tall reeds and bamboos, was a tiny boathouse which held an ancient punt. Cicely intended to read her letter in the punt.

Her grey mare, Chinchilla, neighed and then trotted up. Cicely fed and caressed her, thinking of the good hunts before the war. A couple of bunnies watched these endearments, ready to pop into their burrows if a terrier appeared. Upon the surface of the lake were some wild duck and moor-hens. Overhead a heron flapped lazily along.

Followed by the faithful and sugar-loving Chinchilla, Cicely made her way to the boat-house and entered it. Chinchilla mounted guard outside. Cicely gazed, as some girls do, at the firm writing on the envelope, indicating—to those who have skill in reading character from caligraphy—love of order, a sense of proportion, generosity, and rectitude. Cicely had no such skill, but Arthur’s handwriting pleased her because it was so unlike her own. And it never varied.

She opened the envelope.

Cicely paused. The sincerity of the writer was extraordinarily impressive. That would be his unswerving purpose. He took care of all his possessions. Solicitude, henceforward, would be concentrated upon her.

Tiddy would say, shaking her curls, “Cotton-wool for you, Cis.”

She read on:

The letter ended curtly: “Yours faithfully, A.”

The “faithfully” was exactly like him. And no word in the letter was written so firmly, with such uncompromising up-and-down strokes of a full pen. Obviously he had intended her to digest its significance.

The letter dropped into her lap; she stared through the reeds at the placid surface of the lake reflecting the cloudless blue and the trees upon the farther shore.

Could life be like that?

Would it be life?

That morning she had decided to drift on with her engagement. All vitality seemed to have left her, after uneasy vigils and travailings. She had been born to tread the old ways, like her mother, like all her people, except that one unfortunate who was never mentioned.

Probably she would lose Tiddy. And such a loss filled her with dismay and apprehension. She computed her debt to Tiddy. Tiddy had opened her eyes. Tiddy would go to France, and hurl herself into the danger zone, if she could get anywhere near it. Why was she so different from Tiddy?