All at once, with a curious sense of having failed to realize something, she began to wonder what she should do without Dick. Suppose he were to start now on another expedition--next week, perhaps? She was fastening a chain round her neck when the possibility occurred to her, and all at once her hands dropped down into her lap and she stared blankly into the glass. The thought startled her. It was a little like having the solid ground upon which she walked, and which she accepted without consideration as part of the recognized order of things, cut from under her feet. So confused and absorbed was she at first, that not for some time did she become conscious of her own reflection in the mirror. When her mind was awake to it, that too came as a surprise. She was almost pretty again. There was clear color in her cheeks; her eyes were bright. “I suppose this frock is becoming,” she told herself as she turned away. Dick was waiting for her when she re-entered the drawing-room. He was standing near the fire, holding one hand to the blaze, and as he turned, she thought how big he looked, how reliable, and she smiled. It was surprising how glad she always was to see Dick. He never bored her. “You’re looking very pleased with things in general,” he observed as he took her hand. “Is it because you’ve got on a new dress? I agree with you. It’s charming.” Cecily laughed. “Shall I turn round slowly, to give you the full effect? Observe the lining of its sleeves and its dear little crystal clasps!” “I have observed them,” he said, “and their effect on you. It’s all that could be wished.” He spoke lightly, but his tone did not tend to diminish her light-hearted mood. “Now come!” she exclaimed. “Sit there! Did you think you were here to enjoy yourself? You’ve got to listen to this chapter before dinner, and listen _hard_, and think how you can put severe criticism into a palatable form for me. I insist on the criticism, but I won’t take it neat!” She went to her writing-table, and returned with the written chapter, while Dick obediently settled himself into a comfortable chair. “Go ahead!” he remarked. “May I smoke?” The fire clicked a pleasant accompaniment to Cecily’s voice. The lamplight streamed down upon her soft, thick hair. One of her hands hung over the arm of the chair, white and slender against the folds of her dress. It was her left hand, and the firelight fell on the gold of her wedding-ring. Mayne looked at it once, and averted his gaze with a half frown. At first it was altogether of her he was thinking, his pulses still beating rather quickly, as they always beat when he first saw her, at every one of their meetings. At the beginning of their intimacy he had been terribly afraid of betraying himself, of making their friendship impossible, but he had long ago learned to trust his own power of self-control, and his manner to Cecily had been the perfection of that affectionate friendliness whose justification is long acquaintance.