“Yes--rather. At least, yes, I suppose she is.” His voice was studiedly careless. “Mrs. Summers hasn’t altered much,” he continued. “Looks very young still.” He pushed the door wider, and came into the room as he spoke, still fidgeting with his tie. “We’re a contrast in that respect, aren’t we?” said Cecily, slowly. “I’ve altered a great deal since we were married, haven’t I, Robert?” She still kept her eyes fixed upon the glass from which, as she arranged her hair, her own set face confronted her. Robert was wandering rather aimlessly about the room. “Oh, I don’t know. Have you?” he replied, absently; then, glancing over her shoulder into the mirror, “You’re looking very washy just now,” he added. His wife said nothing, and presently he flung himself on the window-seat, and began to play with the silver ornaments on the dressing-table. “Oh, by the way, whom do you think I ran across at Waterloo this afternoon?” he broke out with a suddenness obviously premeditated. “Mayne--Dick Mayne, you know, just home from Alaska, or Siberia, or wherever it was.” Cecily pinned on the brooch in front of her tea-gown with deliberation. “Central Africa,” she said. “Did you speak to him?” “Speak to him? Of course,” echoed her husband. “I asked him to come down and stay a bit,” he added, opening and shutting a pin-box while he spoke. “He’s a great fisherman, fortunately, or else I don’t know what amusement we could offer him in this God-forsaken spot.” He glanced at Cecily. “Well?” he broke out impatiently, after a moment. “You’ve no objection, I suppose? What’s the matter?” She began to put on her rings, very slowly. “Nothing’s the matter,” she said. “I was only thinking----” “Yes? Thinking what?” he urged, moving irritably. “How jealous you used to be of Dick Mayne.” She turned from the glass, and her eyes, for the first time, met her husband’s. He evaded their glance by springing up. “Oh, my dear Cecily,” he began angrily. “What nonsense! I do _hate_ this----” The deep sound of the gong downstairs cut him short. “Please don’t let us discuss it now,” she said, and moved before him out of the room. CHAPTER IV The evening had worn to an end--a really terrible evening for Rose, though both she and Cecily had talked and laughed with apparent ease. Cecily followed her cousin into her bedroom, lighted the candles, rearranged the curtains, was solicitous for her comfort, and, with a flow of light talk, kept her at a distance. “Good-night, dear,” she said at last, kissing her hastily. “You must be dreadfully tired. Don’t be frightened if you hear a footstep on the stair in the small hours. Robert doesn’t generally come up till then. He writes so late.” Mrs. Summers’ eyes questioned her mutely, but Cecily’s did not waver.