“I regret it, of course, but if you wish it, that is enough. It is your doing, remember--entirely yours. If you choose to put your own interpretation upon views of life which, in all sincerity, for our mutual benefit I have tried to make you share, I have nothing to say. Must a man necessarily be bored with his wife because he wishes a wider outlook for her, as well as for himself?” He paused indignantly on the question. Cecily took up her embroidery. “Not necessarily, perhaps,” she said, “though he generally is. But need we say any more, Robert? The thing is settled, isn’t it?” “By you, remember,” returned Robert, “in utter unreason, in----” “Never mind how, so long as it _is_ settled,” murmured Cecily. He rose, and walked away, while mechanically with a sort of feverish haste, Cecily went on working. His words rang in her ears, false and insincere. His eyes had spoken truth, and in them she had read relief. In the beech tree, above her head, a thrush began to sing. Cecily listened to the first low, passionate notes, then letting her work fall into a heap on the grass, she sprang to her feet and hurried blindly towards the house, and the shelter of her own room. There she crouched against the bed, and drew the counterpane up till it covered her ears. CHAPTER VII Diana came next day, and with her, brought the atmosphere of gay irrepressibleness that belongs to extreme youth. Diana was seventeen. She wore her hair tied, as she expressed it, with a “cat-bow,” and something in the poise of her head, and the shining in her greenish eyes, recalled an alert, half-grown kitten. She was no beauty, though she carried her head well, and in her slim body, straight as a reed, there was the promise of a figure that would not disgrace the goddess whose name she bore. She laughed a great deal, she chattered more; she was utterly irreverent, and Cecily was glad to have her in the silent house. “How is Archie?” she inquired in a pause of the conversation carried on during the process of Diana’s unpacking. “Do you hear from him now? Where is he?” “In Florida. Oh, yes, often; he’s a faithful hound, you know. Prides himself on it. How do you like this blouse?” She shook it out before her sister. “I look perfectly vile in it. But then, I’m such a hideous monkey. Have you noticed that I’m exactly like a monkey, Cis? Look at my monkey eyes!” She sat on the floor and gave a startling imitation of the animal in question. “Yes, but Archie?” questioned Cecily again, when she had recovered her gravity. “Doesn’t he consider himself engaged to you?” “He may,” returned Diana, calmly. “I don’t. Where are my silk stockings? I don’t like faithful hounds. And I don’t like matrimony--for women, you know. It’s all right for men. Fancy having to ‘manage’ them, and to pretend to think such an awful lot of them. It’s _degrading_! I want to show you my sunshade. Isn’t it a sweet color?”