She knew by this time why Arthur talked to her with such flattering insistence. Tiddy would call it “window dressing.” Was it flirting to listen attentively, to appraise the wares, to smile demurely, to watch him inflate with the deliberate intention of deflating him later on? At this point, her thoughts became nebulous. If she knew Arthur better, she might like him more. When did liking turn into a warmer sentiment?

She went home for a week-end before Christmas.

Immediately she realised that her mother’s first kiss included a benediction. Lady Selina held her hands, gently pressing them. Then, with an exclamation of dismay, she examined them, noting broken nails, roughness of skin, and faint stains which defied Scrubbs’ Ammonia.

“Oh, dear!”

“Honourable scars, Mums.”

“The whole world is topsy-turvy. I hear you are called ‘Shandy.’”

“Matron calls me Chandos, and the V.A.D.S Shandy. What does it matter? I’m as hard as nails, and frightfully hungry. I hope you have a topping dinner.”

“Everything you like, darling. We shall be quite alone. Stimson is single-handed. This is a season of fasting and prayer, but you shan’t fast here.”

Cicely hugged her, exuberantly glad to be at home again, but sensible of a change that tugged at her heart-strings. The old graciousness remained, the erect figure, the well-poised head, all the tiny authoritative gestures. But the smooth eyelids drooped more heavily, hiding anxious eyes. The right word came to her later, when they sat together in Lady Selina’s room.

Forlorn ...!

What a word to apply to her mother! Always, she had thought of that mother as self-sufficing. Lady Selina, of course, was accustomed to being alone. She liked to entertain at due intervals—a Chandos tradition; she paid occasional visits; she spent periodic weeks at an old-fashioned hotel in London, in a cul-de-sac, where a gentlewoman could sleep between lavender-scented sheets, and almost believe that she was in the country.

Forlorn ...!

Several reasons jumped into Cicely’s mind: maternal anxiety about Brian, a reduced establishment that forbade entertaining, her own absence from home at a time, possibly, when a devoted mother had set her heart upon “doing things” with her and for her. Without hesitation, she said abruptly:

“Would you like me to stay at home, Mums?”

Evidently, Lady Selina had considered this. She answered quickly:

“No. We must all do our duty, child.”

“You look so forlorn.”

It was impossible to keep back the insistent word. Lady Selina frowned.

“Forlorn? I didn’t know that I looked forlorn, whatever I may feel at times. There are—moments ...” She sighed, and then said with her usual energy: “But they pass. You are a sympathetic creature, Cicely. I ought to be ashamed of looking or feeling forlorn when I have two such good children. And so many good friends. They have been very considerate.” She paused, faintly smiling. “You know, dear, even Mr. Grimshaw leaves me in peace.”

Cicely hoped that she was not blushing, as she murmured:

“Heavens! Why shouldn’t he?”

“I anticipated pesterings. A man with his ideas ... Thousands of pounds! And now, when we all have to think in pence. He is certainly clever. Our people like him. I have given him some shooting. The partridges we had at dinner were shot by him. I see very little of him. Does he go to Wilverley?”

She shot a glance at Cicely, who thanked her stars that she was able to answer truthfully:

“Never!”

Lady Selina brightened. Not for a king’s ransom would she have pleaded dear Arthur’s cause. To do so, however delicately, might invite disaster. And it would be equally indiscreet to “run down” a too attractive, impecunious young man. She decided that a little faint praise was much safer.

“By the way, he is not one of the Grimthorpe Grimshaws. But he will do very well, and in due time step into dear Dr. Pawley’s shoes.”

“His list slippers.”

Lady Selina blinked, and then shied away from rebuke, a notable abstention. Cicely continued hastily:

“Mr. Grimshaw is a gentleman. Nothing else matters.”

“His grandfather, I am told, was a China merchant, whatever that may mean. As for ‘gentleman,’ I am inclined to think my dear father defined the now odious word properly.”

“What was his definition?”

“He contended that the word had nothing to do with moral attributes. A ‘gentleman,’ in his opinion, was a man neither directly nor indirectly connected with trade.”

Cicely opened her lips, and then closed them. She could score heavily by asking whether the son of an ironmaster could, under this definition, be termed a gentleman. But she reflected that her mother would retort that the ironmaster had been created a peer of the realm. Lady Selina went on blandly:

“Your grandfather once ‘turned down,’ as you put it, a clever young man who applied to him for the post of private secretary. He presented himself at dinner in a made-up tie.”

“Heavens!”

“I think my father was quite right. A gentleman never offends in small matters. I deplore the fact that your friend Arabella pronounces G-I-R-L ‘gurl.’ How do you pronounce it?”

Cicely smiled.

“It depends upon whom I’m talking to, Mums. I shouldn’t say ‘gurl’ before you. I suppose you’d have a fit if I asked for a ‘serviette’ instead of a ‘napkin’?”

“It would nearly kill me,” replied Lady Selina solemnly.

“Arabella nearly died when she heard an old duchess pronounce ‘yellow’ ‘yaller.’”

“That used to be the proper pronunciation, my dear.”

Cicely held her tongue.

Lady Selina, as usual, blamed the school. A girl brought up at home would not venture to criticise, even allusively, her elders. She was aware that Miss Tiddle criticised the Author of her Being! Cicely hastily changed the talk, describing, not without sprightliness, her adventures and misadventures as a V.A.D. Incidentally she mentioned Wilverley, conscious at once that the atmosphere became charged with electricity. Lady Selina, at mere mention of his name, purred with pleasure. To stroke her fur the right way became a temptation hard to resist. Cicely, however, succeeded in pleasing her mother without committing herself. That, at least, was her happy conviction when she went to bed. Snug in bed, and congratulating herself upon a strategy that Tiddy might have disdained, she heard a soft tap upon the door. Lady Selina, majestic in a brocaded dressing-gown, entered. Cicely was astonished and moved. Such visits were rare. Lady Selina fussed over her, tucked her up, and kissed her fondly, whispering:

“You are my own little girl. You mustn’t worry about me. As I said, there are moments when this unhappy world seems upside down. I ask myself where I am. But I have the greatest confidence in you, darling. That is such a comfort—to be sure of those you love. Sleep well, and have breakfast in bed if you want to.”

Cicely did not sleep too well. She lay awake for at least an hour, feeling strangely restless and uncomfortable. And she woke up many times, tingling with an exasperation which she tried in vain to resolve into elements. She wished both Wilverley and Grimshaw at Timbuctoo; she wished that she was like Tiddy, who could “take on” three suitors as a “rag”; she almost wished she had been born of humbler parentage. Tiddy assured her that the old order was “down and out,” never to rise again. Admittedly, Tiddy knew nothing of the old order. And Cicely dimly beheld a new disorder, with blatant voices and not too clean linen, that might exercise a greater tyranny than any aristocracy of rank and starched shirts. For the moment, she ultimately decided, she knew what she wanted—to be left alone.