Meanwhile, as luck would have it, Lady Selina happened to be in Cicely’s rooms. Already she envisaged them as suitable for a day—and night—nursery. The old nursery at the Manor was not too happily situated. It looked north. Lady Selina could remember the day when she had suggested to her husband a bigger and better room, but he had expressed positively the opinion that what had been good enough for himself and his father, was good enough for his children. He was no believer in coddling. And if babies howled, which in his day was reckoned to be a natural lamentation over Original Sin, let them howl next to the servants’ quarters!

Now, with a more enlightened understanding, Lady Selina admitted that howling was no longer tolerated. And something told her that she would hasten, despite her advanced years, more swiftly to Cicely’s babies than she had ever hastened to her own. Conscious of this, and able to analyse her sensibilities with an odd detachment, she smilingly considered the right placing of cots out of draughts, and the substitution of thick curtains instead of chintz. Chintz rustled when windows were open at night; flimsy curtains bulged inwards; a nervous child might be frightened.

These thoughts were put to flight by the soft purring of Wilverley’s motor. And then, to her utter confounding, looking out of the window, she beheld Wilverley and his chauffeur, and, a moment later, the faithful Stimson crossed the stable-yard carrying a suit-case.

What, in the name of the Sphinx, could have happened? And where was Cicely? Had the dear young people quarrelled? As her prospective son-in-law, she insisted upon regarding Arthur as young; Cicely she reckoned to be a mere child.

Her heart began to beat uncomfortably, as a premonition of disaster gripped her. She sat down, trembling, realising that her hands and feet were cold. Deep down in her mind, possibly in some zone of subconsciousness, lay latent the fear that a marriage so exactly right from every point might never take place. She had been aware, from the first, of Cicely’s hesitations and doubts. But always she had impatiently dismissed her own forebodings as unduly pessimistic.

For a minute or two she sat still, unable to think articulately. She heard the motor leave the stable-yard. A long, dismal silence followed. Being a lady of quality, she realised instantly that Arthur was incapable of rushing away from her house without a word of explanation unless something quite out of the ordinary had happened. A man in his position might, of course, receive an urgent telegram. But, in that case, Cicely would have speeded him on his way.

She waited, knowing that Cicely would soon come to her own rooms.

Cicely, meanwhile, believing that her mother was quite unaware of Wilverley’s departure, had not yet considered how and when she could tell the abominable truth. The paramount necessity of the moment was to be alone. Accordingly, after Arthur had disappeared, she remained on the sofa, staring at her father’s portrait. She made sure that her mother was in the garden under the tree where tea was served on hot afternoons.

Presently, she opened the door, saw that the corridor was empty, and stole swiftly to her sitting-room. As she entered it, Lady Selina rose to meet her.

“Why has Arthur gone?” she asked calmly.

Cicely, completely taken aback, unable to temporise, faltered out:

“Because I have broken off our engagement.”