He said nothing, but it roused in him a kind of fierce soreness that she would always keep the past so clearly before herself and him.

Violent rain came on, and they hurried back to the cottage for shelter.  Cicely was talking extravagantly all the time.  She was tired to death, she said, of everything patriotic.  The people who prattled about nursing, and the people who prattled about the war—­especially the people who talked about women’s work—­were all equally intolerable.  She meant to give up everything very soon.  Somebody must amuse themselves, or the world would go mad.  Farrell threw at her some brotherly jibes; the old Rector looked scared; and Marsworth said nothing.

* * * * *

There were bright fires in the cottage, and the dripping walkers were glad to crowd round them; all except Cicely and Marsworth, who seemed to Nelly’s watching sense to be oddly like two wrestlers pacing round each other, and watching the opportunity to close.  Each would take out a book from the shelves and put it back, or take up a newspaper from the tables—­crossing repeatedly, but never speaking.  And meanwhile Nelly also noticed that Daisy Stewart, now that Cicely’s close contact was removed, was looking extraordinarily pretty.  Radiance, not to be concealed, shone from her charming childish face.

Suddenly Marsworth paused in front of Cicely, intercepting her as she was making for the door.

’Would you be an angel, Miss Farrell, and help me to find a particular Turner drawing I want to see?  Willy says it’s in the studio somewhere.’

Cicely paused, half haughty, half irresolute.

‘Willy knows his way about the portfolios much better than I do.’

Marsworth came nearer, and leaning one hand on the table between them, bent over to her.  He was smiling, but there was emotion in his look.

‘Willy is looking after these people.  Won’t you?’

Cicely considered.

‘All right!’ she said carelessly, at last, and led the way.

CHAPTER XV

The studio was empty.  A wood fire burnt on the wide hearth, making a pleasant glow in the wintry twilight.  Cicely seated herself on the end of a sofa, crossed her feet, and took out a cigarette.  But to Marsworth’s intense relief she had taken off the helmet-like erection she called a hat, and her black curly hair strayed as it pleased about her brow and eyes.

‘Well?’ she said, at last, looking at him coolly.  Marsworth could not help laughing.  He brought a chair, and placed it where he could see her from below, as he lay back in it, his hands behind his head.

‘Of course, you don’t want to look at the portfolio,’ she resumed, ’that was your excuse.  You want to tell me of your engagement to Miss Stewart.’

Marsworth laughed again.  Her ear caught what seemed to be a note of triumph.