"As far as she is concerned, perhaps. I'm sure Edward still looks upon it as going to happen some day." "I don't believe she'll marry Graham, even if he wants her. He's just such another as Edward, with a trifle more sense." "No, Herbert, he is quite different. I like him. I think it would be a good thing for Cicely to marry him." "She ought to have the chance of seeing other fellows. Then, if she likes to embark afresh on a vegetable existence, it will be her own choice. Of course, you needn't vegetate, living in the country, but the wife of Jim Graham probably would. Give her her chance, anyway." But this particular chance was denied to Cicely. The Squire wouldn't hear of it. "My dear Emmeline," he said, "it is very kind of you--very kind of you indeed. But she'd only get unsettled. She's got maggots in her head already. I hope some day to see her married to a country gentleman, like her mother before her. Though I say it, no women could be better off. Until the time comes, it's best for Cicely to stay at home." "Idiot!" said Mr. Birket, when the decision was conveyed to him. "I was mistaken in him. I think now he would be capable of any infamy. Don't tell Cicely, Emmeline." But the Squire told her, and rebuked her because the invitation had been offered. "What you have to do," he said, "is to make yourself happy at home. Heaven knows there's enough to make you so. You have everything that a girl can want. For goodness' sake be contented with it, and don't always want to be gadding about." Cicely felt too sore to answer him, and retired as soon as his homily was over. In the afternoon--it was on Sunday--she went for a walk with her uncle. He did not express himself to her as he had done to Mrs. Birket, but gave her the impression that he thought her father's refusal unfortunate, but not unreasonable, smiling inwardly to himself as he did so. "I should have loved to come, you know, Uncle Herbert," she said. "And we should have loved to have you, my dear," he said. "But, after all, Kencote is a very jolly place, and it's your own fault if you're bored in it. Nobody ought to be bored anywhere. I never am." "Well then, please tell me what to do with myself." "What do you do, as it is?" "I read a little, and try to paint, and----" "Then read more, and try to paint better. Effort, my dear,--that's the secret of life. Give yourself some trouble." He gave her more advice as they walked and talked together, and she listened to him submissively, and became interested in what he said to her. "I should like to make myself useful in some way," she said. "I don't want to spend all my life amusing myself or even improving myself." "Oh, improving yourself! That's not quite the way to put it. Expressing yourself--that's what you want to do--what everybody ought to do. And look here, my dear, when you say you want to make yourself useful--I suppose you mean hospital nursing or something of that sort, eh?"