“Not a bit!  I should have liked to have you anyhow, but I can make you much more comfortable with the P.G. money.  And your maid too—­she looks as if she was accustomed to the best!  By the way, need she be quite so tearful?  She’s more tearful than you are yourself.”

“Jeanne’s very, very fond of me,” Cynthia murmured reproachfully.

“Oh, well get her out of that,” said Mary briskly.  “The tears, I mean, not the fondness.  I’m very fond of you myself.  Six years ago you were a charming kitten, and I used to enjoy being your ’visiting governess’—­to say nothing of finding the guineas very handy while I was waiting to qualify.  You’re rather like a kitten still, one of those blue-eyed ones—­Siamese, aren’t they?—­with close fur and a wondering look.  But you mustn’t mew down here, and you must have lots of milk and cream.  Even if rations go on, I can certify all the extras for you.  That’s the good of being a doctor!” She laughed cheerfully as she took a cigarette from the mantelpiece and lit it.

Cynthia, on the other hand, began to sob prettily and not in a noisy fashion, yet evidently heading towards a bout of grief.  Moreover, no sooner had the first sound of lamentation escaped from her lips, than the door was opened smartly and a buxom girl, in lady’s maid uniform, rushed in, darted across the room, and knelt by Cynthia, sobbing also and exclaiming, “Oh, my poor Mees Cynthia!”

Mary smiled in a humorous contempt.

“Stop this!” she commanded rather brusquely.  “You’ve not been deceived too, have you, Jeanne?”

“Me, madame?  No.  My poor Mees—­”

“Leave your poor Mees to me.”  She took a paper bag from the mantelpiece.  “Go and eat chocolates.”

Fixed with a firm and decidedly professional glance, Jeanne stopped sobbing and rose slowly to her feet.

“Don’t listen outside the door.  You must have been listening.  Wait till you’re rung for.  Miss Cynthia will be all right with me.  We’re going for a walk.  Take her upstairs and put her hat on her, and a thick coat; it’s cold and going to rain, I think.”

“A walk, Mary?” Cynthia’s sobs stopped, to make way for this protest.  The description of the weather did not sound attractive.

“Yes, yes.  Now off with both of you!  Here, take the chocolates, Jeanne, and try to remember that it might have been worse.”

Jeanne’s brown eyes were eloquent of reproach.

“Captain Cranster might have been found out too late—­after the wedding,” Mary explained with a smile.  “Try to look at it like that.  Five minutes to get ready, Cynthia!” She was ready for the weather herself, in the stout coat and skirt and weather-proof hat in which she had driven the two-seater on her round that morning.