But her beauty was wellnigh gone. It was a beauty that had always largely depended on happiness, and now, with her blue eyes faded, the delicate color gone from her cheeks, her hair still soft but lustreless, she was almost a plain woman. Rose glanced furtively from her face to her dress. It was of simple dark blue linen, quite neat, quite serviceable. She thought of the dainty muslins, the ribbons, the flowers of earlier summers--and the ludicrousness of even imagining Cecily in a gown that could be characterized as serviceable! “When you begin to neglect your frocks, Cis, I shall know the end is near.” In the old days Mrs. Summers had often told her this. She recalled it now, and made haste to break the silence. “Where is Robert?” she asked. “Do I call him Robert? I forget.” “Of course you do. He’s in town--reading at the British Museum.” Rose raised her eyebrows with a laugh. “Since when has our Robert become so studious?” “He’s writing a historical novel, and has to study up the period. Robert is getting quite famous, you know, Rose,” she added, after a moment’s pause. “Yes--but _you_, Cis? Why are _you_ not famous?” “I? Oh, I’m married--instead,” she replied, with a little laugh. “Tell me all about Robert,” demanded Mrs. Summers. “If you only knew how horribly out of things I feel! I know nothing of what’s been going on in the book world.” “I should think not--with two babies to look after.” “And the constant moving from one station to another. One loses touch so quickly, and you know, Cis,” with a touch of reproach, “you haven’t written. Why didn’t you write? For the last year or two I’ve scarcely heard anything of you.” For a moment her cousin was silent, and when she spoke her voice trembled. “I know. But after baby died, I hadn’t the heart. And then----” She broke off abruptly. Mrs. Summers’ voice was very gentle. “Yes, dear, of course--I understand,” she said. “But tell me everything now. Robert’s getting famous? That means that you’re getting rich, you lucky little wretch!” “Yes,” returned Cecily. “Yes, I suppose we shall be rich,” she added, slowly. “Bless the child! Aren’t you glad? Isn’t he glad?” “Oh, yes, he’s very glad. We can get away now.” She spoke in a quiet, unemotional tone, and Rose glanced at her sharply. “Get away? But doesn’t he love this place?” “No, he’s sick of it,” she said, still in the same indifferent voice. “We’re going to sell it, and move to London in the autumn.” “But Robert was so wild to take it!” “That was five years ago.” “It’s perfectly lovely, of course,” returned her friend, glancing round her. “But _you_ never wanted to come, I remember. You wanted so much to live in town. The discussion of town _versus_ country was at its height when I left. So country won?” “Yes, country won,” Cecily repeated. “Well, it’s beautiful,” Rose repeated. “I never saw such flowers. What a gardener you must have!” Cecily laughed. “I am the gardener. I do it nearly all myself.”