This confidential talk produced one unexpected effect. Cicely’s plastic mind, plastic under any dominating hand, began to envisage Grimshaw as driven out of Upworthy by circumstance. Instinct had told her that Wilverley’s conjecture was wrong, and instinct happened to be right. But her intelligence, much sharpened by Tiddy, reversed the first judgment. She beheld Grimshaw turning his back upon a hopeless fight, as admittedly he had done before. And if this were true, he would not come back.

He had not written to her.

Not even to Tiddy would she admit that she had hoped for a letter. If he cared, he would surely write. He might write, if he didn’t care. And he had written to Mrs. Rockram, an epistle read aloud to Cicely and then put away as a cherished souvenir of a perfect gentleman. Grimshaw had written also more than once to Dr. Pawley, but Cicely had not read these letters. She gathered from an old friend that Grimshaw was doing first-class work, likely to be recognised, if not rewarded, at Headquarters. Pawley said to her regretfully:

“This parish is too small for him.”

And at the time, Hope had whispered the flattering tale: “Yes, it is; but I’m in it, and he’ll come back on my account.”

Now Hope faded out of sight.

Of course the sharp-eyed Tiddy perceived that her friend was passing through a bad time. The flame of patriotism burned less brightly; the daily drudgery went on imposing fresh exacerbations. Tiddy felt very sorry, but she reflected, not without an inward smile, that Cicely would profit by these bludgeonings. She would learn what Sir Nathaniel called—values. Meanwhile, an unhappy young gentlewoman might mar her own life, and that of another, by marrying the wrong man. Tiddy decided that Arthur Wilverley was a good fellow. But he would take Cicely into his ample maw and absorb her. She would become Lord Wilverley’s wife, an amiable nonentity. She decided, also, with equal cocksureness, that such a match would prove disastrous to the husband. Wilverley worked in a circle likely to grow smaller if he were left alone with his potentialities. His energies would centre upon himself and his possessions. In this regard the author of Miss Tiddle’s being furnished an object-lesson. He reigned supreme in the pill factories and on occasion assumed the god, thereby shaking not the spheres but the sides of those who beheld him.

Eventually Tiddy came to the conclusion that Cicely and Wilverley were drifting, like leaves upon a stream, into marriage.

“I must take a hand in this game,” thought Miss Tiddle.

The necessity of doing “something” became even more imperative when she marshalled the forces arrayed against her. Lady Selina, she decided, was exercising, perhaps unconsciously, continual pressure. Mrs. Roden was plainly bent upon lending Providence a helping finger. She said majestically to Tiddy:

“You are a very sharp young lady.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Roden,” Tiddy demurely replied.

“Between ourselves, my dear”—Tiddy smiled—“I can assure you that the happiness of others concerns me more, much more, than my own.”

This was quite untrue, and Tiddy knew it. Mrs. Roden continued:

“You must have noticed what is going on under our noses?”

Tiddy intimated, abstaining from slang, that her eyes were not altogether ornamental.

Mrs. Roden, warming to altruistic work, pursued the even tenor of her way.

“In my opinion, these two dear people want pushing.”

“Sometimes I could shake Cis,” said Tiddy.

“Yes, yes. Now, once more strictly between ourselves——”

“That is understood.”

“I have decided that you, my dear, should—a—give the little push.”

“Really?”

“I am sure of it.”

“I don’t think, Mrs. Roden, that I could push Lord Wilverley.”

“Certainly not. Being the man he is, of a somewhat nervous stolidity, irritably energetic, if I may say so, he might resent pushing from you. I propose to push him. I want you to push Cicely. Together we shall achieve our purpose.”

“I see.”

“I can’t conceive of a happier, more suitable match. It would be, I venture to affirm, abundantly blessed. Whenever I look at them, I think of—a——”

“The multiplication table?”

“How quick you are! Yes, yes—the patter of little feet appeals to me tremendously. I am glad to think that such a vital subject can be frankly discussed between a matron and a maid. The maids will make better matrons when absurd reserves become obsolete. All that is needed in this case is adjustment, the little touch that turns the balance. It is a great privilege to give such touches. I need say no more.”

“I understand,” said Tiddy. “I shall push for all I’m worth.”