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friend, and she had been surprised when Cecily had refused in a short, rather childishly-worded note. 'Of course, I should like to come to you, and it is very kind of you to ask me, but I cannot leave my aunt. She has been so looking forward to my holiday, and, after all, I shall enjoy being at Brighton, near my old convent.' Such had been Cecily's answer to her dear Penelope's invitation, and, though she had shed bitter tears over it, she had sent off her letter without consulting the old lady, to whom she was sacrificing so great a joy.

      Happily for the world, there is a kind of unselfishness, which, as a French theologian rather pungently put it, 'fait des petits,' and Mrs. Robinson's answer had been responsive. 'Of course, I meant your aunt to come, too,' she wrote, lying. 'I enclose a note for her. I shall be very glad to see her here.' There she wrote the truth, for only exceptional people object to meet those whom they have vanquished in fair fight.

      This was why Cecily Wake, supremely content, was sitting, late in the afternoon of a hot August day, in her cousin's pretty room.

      The glass doors were wide open, and from the flagged terrace blew in the warm, gentle sea-wind.

      Cecily was still so young in body and in mind that she really preferred work to play; nevertheless, playtime was very pleasant, especially now that she was beginning to feel a little tired after the long journey from town, and the more fatiguing experience of seeing to the unpacking of her aunt's boxes, and of establishing her in bed.

      The elder Miss Wake was one of those women who, perhaps not altogether unfortunately for their friends, enjoy poor health, and make it the excuse for seldom doing anything which either annoys or bores them. Occasionally, however, to her own surprise and disgust, Poor Health the servant became Ill Health the master, and to-day outraged nature had insisted on having the last word. This was why the aunt, really tired, and suffering from a real headache, was lying upstairs, thinking, not ungratefully, that Cecily, in spite of many modern peculiarities and headstrong theories of life, was certainly in time of illness as comforting a presence as might have been that ideal niece the aunt would fain have had her be.

      Perhaps the great characteristic of youth is the power of ardently looking forward to the enjoyment of an ideal pleasure. To retain even the power of keen disappointment is to retain youth. Cecily Wake had longed for this visit to Monk's Eype much as a different kind of girl longs for her first ball, but, instead of feeling disappointed at being received with the news that her hostess, after making all kinds of small arrangements for her own and her aunt's comfort, had gone out riding, she had felt relieved that the meeting between Miss Wake and Mrs. Robinson had been put off till the former had regained her usual tart serenity.

      The girl enjoyed these moments of quiet in what was, to one who had had few opportunities of living amid beautiful surroundings, the most charming room she had ever seen. Most of all, she delighted in one exquisite singularity which it owed to the fancy of Lady Wantley. Not long after it had been built, and while it was still being used as a lecture-hall, Lady Wantley had had an oblong opening effected in the brickwork just above the plain stone mantelpiece.

      This opening, filled with clear glass, was ever bringing into the room, as no mere window could have done, a sense of nearness to the breezy stretch of down, studded with gnarled, wind-twisted pine-trees, standing out darkly against the irregular coast-line which stretched itself, with many a fantastic turn, towards Plymouth.

      IV

      The tall book-framed door suddenly opened, and Mrs. Robinson walked swiftly in. As she came down the room, a smile of real pleasure and welcome lighting up her face, Cecily was almost startled by the look of vigorous grace and vitality with which the whole figure was instinct, and which was accentuated rather than lessened by the short skirt, the dun-coloured coat, and soft hat, which fashion, for once wedded to sense, has decreed should be the modern riding-dress.

      Almost involuntarily the girl exclaimed: 'How well you look!'

      'Do I?' Penelope sat down close to Cecily; then she leant across and lightly kissed the young girl's round cheek. 'I ought to look well after a long ride with David Winfrith. You know, he has just been made Under-Secretary for Foreign Affairs in the new Government.'

      'Oh, is he here, too?' Cecily spoke disappointedly. She had hoped, rather foolishly, that Penelope would be alone at Monk's Eype.

      'No, he's not staying here. His own home is close by. We must go over there some time and see his old father; you would like him, Cecily, better than you do the son.' She hesitated, then continued in the curiously modulated voice which was one of her peculiarities: 'We had such a ride—such a discussion—such a quarrel—such a reconciliation! Oh yes, I feel much better than I did yesterday.'

      'Was it about the Settlement?' Cecily fixed her thoughtful, honest eyes on her friend's face.

      'Our discussion? No, no! My dear child, you must forget all about the Settlement while you are here. I want to tell you about the people you are going to meet. First, there's my mother, who, in theory, will spend a good deal of time with your aunt, though in practice I shall be surprised if they often speak to one another, for they are too utterly unlike even to differ. Then there's my cousin, Lord Wantley. I'm afraid you won't like him very much, for he makes fun of me—and of the Settlement, too. But it isn't fair to tell you that! I want you to make friends with him. You must spare him some of the pity you are so ready to lavish on poor people who are unhappy or unlucky—Ludovic has been rather unlucky, and he has a perfect genius for making himself unhappy.'

      'Lord Wantley is Catholic, is he not?' Cecily spoke with some hesitation. She knew her aunt had told her something concerning Penelope's cousin, but she could not remember what it was which had been told her.

      Penelope looked up from the task of unbuttoning her gloves. 'No, he's nothing of the kind,' she said decidedly, 'but perhaps he ought to be. Who knows—Miss Wake may perhaps convert him,' she smiled rather satirically. Cecily looked troubled; she was beginning to realize that her holiday would be very different from what she had hoped and expected it to be. 'Seriously, I want you to interest him in the Settlement. We cannot expect David Winfrith to go on doing as much for us as he has been doing. Besides'—she hesitated, and a shadow crossed the radiant face—'I am thinking of making certain arrangements which will greatly alter his position in the whole affair.'

      'But what would the Settlement do without Mr. Winfrith?' There was utter dismay in the tone.

      'Well, we needn't discuss all that now. I only mean that Lord Wantley is what people used to call a man of parts, and I have never been able to see why he should not do more for me—I mean, of course, in this one matter of the Settlement—than he has done as yet. He has led a very selfish life.' Penelope spoke with much vigour. 'He has never done anything for anybody, not even for himself, and what energy he has had to spare has always been expended in the wrong direction. The only time I have ever known him show any zeal was just after my father's death, when he presented the chapel of the monastery at Beacon Abbas, near here, with a window in memory of his father.' A whimsical smile flitted across her face. 'I rather admired his pluck, but of course if my mother had been another kind of woman it would have meant that we should have broken with him. For my father, as all the world knew, had a great prejudice against Roman Catholics, and Ludovic could not have done a thing which would have annoyed him more.'

      Cecily made no comment. Instead, she observed, diffidently, 'I will certainly try and interest him in the Settlement. I have brought down the new report.'

      A delightful dimple came and went on Mrs. Robinson's curved cheek. 'I think your spoken remarks,' she said seriously, 'will impress Ludovic more than the new report; in fact, he would probably only pretend to read it. Most people only pretend to read reports.'

      She got up, and walked to the plain deal table where lay a half-finished sketch of the flagged terrace and the pierced stone parapet; then she opened the drawer where she kept various odds and ends connected with her work.

      'Tell me,' she said a little hurriedly, her face bent over the open drawer as if seeking for something she had mislaid—'tell me, Cecily, have you had any weddings at the Settlement? In my time there was much marrying and giving in

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