Also she kept in her armoury the weapon which can be so mightily effective if used sparingly by a really sincere individual—­the knowledge of when to be a humbug.  Ambition entered to a certain extent into her life, and governed it perhaps rather more than she knew.  She desired to escape from the doom of being a nonentity, but the escape would have to be effected in her own way and in her own time; to be governed by ambition was only a shade or two better than being governed by convention.

The drawing-room in which she and Ronnie were sitting was of such proportions that one hardly knew whether it was intended to be one room or several, and it had the merit of being moderately cool at two o’clock on a particularly hot July afternoon.  In the coolest of its many alcoves servants had noiselessly set out an improvised luncheon table:  a tempting array of caviare, crab and mushroom salads, cold asparagus, slender hock bottles and high-stemmed wine goblets peeped out from amid a setting of Charlotte Klemm roses.

Cicely rose from her seat and went over to the piano.

“Come,” she said, touching the young man lightly with a finger-tip on the top of his very sleek, copper-hued head, “we’re going to have picnic-lunch to-day up here; it’s so much cooler than any of the downstairs rooms, and we shan’t be bothered with the servants trotting in and out all the time.  Rather a good idea of mine, wasn’t it?”

Ronnie, after looking anxiously to see that the word “picnic” did not portend tongue sandwiches and biscuits, gave the idea his blessing.

“What is young Storre’s profession?” some one had once asked concerning him.

“He has a great many friends who have independent incomes,” had been the answer.

The meal was begun in an appreciative silence; a picnic in which three kinds of red pepper were available for the caviare demanded a certain amount of respectful attention.

“My heart ought to be like a singing-bird to-day, I suppose,” said Cicely presently.

“Because your good man is coming home?” asked Ronnie.

Cicely nodded.

“He’s expected some time this afternoon, though I’m rather vague as to which train he arrives by.  Rather a stifling day for railway travelling.”

“And is your heart doing the singing-bird business?” asked Ronnie.

“That depends,” said Cicely, “if I may choose the bird.  A missel-thrush would do, perhaps; it sings loudest in stormy weather, I believe.”

Ronnie disposed of two or three stems of asparagus before making any comment on this remark.

“Is there going to be stormy weather?” he asked.

“The domestic barometer is set rather that way,” said Cicely.  “You see, Murrey has been away for ever so long, and, of course, there will be lots of things he won’t be used to, and I’m afraid matters may be rather strained and uncomfortable for a time.”

“Do you mean that he will object to me?” asked Ronnie.