Tiddy walked to the window and looked out upon the stable-yard. As she did so, the big stable clock struck four solemn notes. In one hour tea would be served on the lawn.

After the heavy rain of the morning, a breeze blew chill upon Tiddy’s cheek. But it failed to cool her mind, now burning with democratic indignation against conventions and traditions which had brought her beloved friend to this sorry pass. Was it an impasse? Had she driven Cicely into a cul-de-sac? When she did speak, what would she say? And what she might say was, of course, insignificant compared to what she ought to do.

Cut loose!

Could she?

That would demand an immense effort, something cataclysmal. Tiddy had not been deceived by Lady Selina’s surface gaiety, although much impressed by it as proof positive of what good-breeding might achieve. She knew perfectly well that Brian’s death must have been a shattering blow. Lady Selina had plenty of heart. Because of that, because she loved Cicely, she had assumed a mask. Nevertheless, it was equally obvious that this engagement, evoking as it did maternal energies and solicitude, had tempered the cruel bereavement. She heard a chastened voice, slightly querulous:

“I am fond of Arthur.”

Tiddy retorted disdainfully:

“I’m fond of chocs.”

“Have some,” said Cicely defiantly. “There’s a box over there, Charbonel and Walker’s.”

Tiddy helped herself. Silently, she offered the box to Cicely, who shook her head.

“I am fond of you,” said Tiddy, nibbling at a praline, “but I’m fonder of myself. That is the test. I shan’t marry till I find some man who can make me forget how fond I am of myself.”

Cicely considered this. Tiddy had spoken sincerely. Cicely, not sufficiently alert to weigh the effect of words, answered with equal sincerity:

“Arthur and I agree that the sort of—of feeling you speak of may be awakened—later.”

“You sit there and tell me you have calmly discussed that? I suppose you told him that you had a sisterly regard for him. And then he said that he’d warm you up—later! Heavens! Why did he send you chocs? What you want is ginger.”

“Say what you like.”

“I shall. What you have done is indecent. There’s a woman in your family, a first cousin, whom you never mention. But I happen to know all about her. She ran away from her husband, who was a brute, with an actor; she bolted afterwards from the actor because he made a fool of himself with his leading lady; and she didn’t bolt alone. I have infinitely more respect for her than you. What an engagement! Two babes in the topiary garden, fatly gurgling, dreaming that the Voice that breathed o’er Eden will bless ’em, devoutly praying that love will awaken ’em. Take it from me that love is too busy to waste his time upon such blighters.”

Tossing her curls, stamping her foot, the daughter of the twentieth century glared at the daughter of the eighteenth.

Then, once more, she cooled herself at the window.

Cicely moistened her lips with a feverish tongue. Anger had engendered anger. She was tempted to say, with frigid dignity: “That will do. Please go.”

One consideration restrained her. Tiddy was fond of her. She might have abused friendship, strained it to breaking-point, but no girl would have spoken with such fierce vehemence unless she had been tremendously moved. To part from such a friend would be terrible.

Having reached this conclusion, Cicely became again a dual personality. Before, when this curious experience befell her, she had been conscious of an uplifting. From altruistic heights she had surveyed her world. Complacency had fallen, like refreshing dew, upon her. It was quite otherwise now. The new Cicely beheld with Tiddy’s eyes the old Cicely. The new Cicely challenged the old Cicely to mortal combat. The new Cicely said savagely: “Tiddy is right—a marriage of convenience is indecent.”

But the old Cicely was not to be vanquished easily. Tiddy heard her friend’s voice, still querulous:

“You are horribly unkind. You—you are spoiling everything. Heaps of girls, nice girls, marry without—without f—f—feeling p—p—passionate. And their marriages turn out jolly well.”

She ended defiantly.

Tiddy, rather ashamed of her outburst, ashamed, also, to discover that her eyes were wet, said without turning:

“Those anÆmic sort of girls are not in love with somebody else, as you are. That’s what makes this thing indecent. What you propose doing is an outrage on Arthur.”

Arthur....

Instantly Cicely became alert. Tiddy had never spoken of Wilverley’s lord as “Arthur.” The name had slipped from her lips naturally and with a soft inflection that was unmistakable.

“Tiddy.”

“Yes?”

“Look at me, please. I want to see your face.”

Tiddy turned; Cicely rose. Melodrama is as catching as measles. Cicely approached her friend, speaking intensely, in what is called in theatre-land a stage whisper:

“You seem to be thinking more of Arthur than of me. Are you?”

“And what if I am? It’s time somebody did think for him; apparently the poor fellow can’t think straight for himself.”

“Will you swear solemnly, as you tried to make me swear, that Arthur is nothing to you? You had the cheek to tell me that you could, if you tried, take him from me. It looks as if you had tried. And that, of course, would account for your extraordinary behaviour. Now ... swear!”

Silence.

To be “hoist with one’s own petard” is an experience that few escape. To accept such hoisting without whimpering is difficult. Hence Miss Tiddle’s silence. Cicely had put to her a question which as yet she had not put to herself. It fell, devastatingly, into the well where Truth hides herself from a mendacious world.

“If you say nothing I shall think what I please.”

Tiddy pulled herself together.

“You are forcing me to be honest, not with you, but with myself. I have not tried to take Arthur from you.”

“Could he”—Cicely’s voice was relentless—“could he, if he were free, be more to you than a friend?”

Tiddy squirmed.

“I—I don’t know,” she admitted. “Really, this is ridiculous, preposterous. If I apply to myself my own test, I can swear truthfully that I am fonder of myself than Arthur. There!”

Cicely returned to her chair, sank into it, and stared at the carpet. This was one of her tricks, an idiosyncrasy that occasionally exasperated Lady Selina. She went into the same sort of trance that afflicted Lord Saltaire when he found a hair in his soup. Cicely had found a hair in her soup.

Tiddy could not guess that the two Cicelys were locked together at strangle-grips—a fight to a finish.

She cooled herself for the third time at the window.