Before the glass in her own room Cecily paused. “Make yourself look pretty,” Diana had said. She smiled a little bitterly at what the remark implied, and then with a shrug of the shoulders turned to her wardrobe. A gown she had worn at a recent wedding, and since put away, lay folded in its box on one of the shelves. She took it out and laid it on the bed. Dick had always liked her frocks. “He won’t think much of me in them nowadays,” she reflected, with another glance at the mirror. Nevertheless she dressed carefully, and thanks to that very present help in the concerns of women, Mayne’s first thought, as he met her in the hall, was that Lady Wilmot had not increased in good-nature. “Why, Dick,” she laughed, unconsciously echoing the lady who had occurred to his mind, “you’ve grown!” She gave him her hand warmly. It was surprising how glad she felt to see Dick again, and quite surprising how the glance he bestowed upon her increased her pleasure in the meeting. The old admiration was in his eyes, and on a sudden some of her old self, the self she had thought long dead, stirred faintly. It was the first tribute of the sort she had received of late, and she was amazed to find it sweet. Dinner, thanks to Diana, was not lacking in sprightliness, and, as far as Cecily was concerned, in incident. As well as resentment for her sister in a situation which she recognized as unhappy, and for which she not unnaturally attributed the blame to her brother-in-law, Diana cherished against him a personal grievance. In old childish days she had been a great favorite with Robert, who had teased and petted her in brotherly fashion. Now his “grumpiness,” growing, as Diana sharpened the arrows of her tongue, had extended to her, and her revenge was a perpetual system of teasing which was not without malice. “Been a busy little lad to-day, Robert, I trust?” she began, as they sat down to table. “I’m told that the British Museum is a splendid schoolroom for little boys. I must say _I_ always found it stuffy.” “I don’t believe you’ve ever been near it,” he returned, with an attempt at lightness. “How do we know you have, either?” she retorted. “All very well, isn’t it, Cis, to go up to town every day, with his good little earnest face, and his little school-books tucked under his arm? ‘Good-bye, dear wife! Only the desire to improve myself forces me to leave you,’” she mimicked, giving a rapid imitation of Robert’s manner, so apt, in spite of the ludicrous words, that Mayne choked over his soup. “I believe the moment he gets up to town, he takes his marbles out of his pockets, and his little toys and things, and begins to play!” She leaned towards him like a kind and tender parent. “Come, tell mother all about it,” she coaxed, “and then she won’t be angry with her little boy.” Mayne and Cecily both laughed. Of the two Cecily seemed the more amused.