Maryllia laughed.

“Yes,—­Aunt Emily all over!” she said—­“How tired I am of that phrase!  She knows as well as anybody that Roxmouth, for all his airs of aristocratic propriety, is a social villain of the lowest type of modern decadence, yet she would rather see me married to him than to any other man she has ever met.  And why?  Simply because he will be a Duke!  She would like to say to all her acquaintances—­’My niece is a Duchess.’  She would feel a certain fantastic satisfaction in thinking that her millions were being used to build up the decayed fortunes of an English nobleman’s family, as well as to ‘restore’ Roxmouth Castle, which is in a bad state of repair.  And she would sacrifice my heart and soul and life to such trumpery ambitions as these!”

“Trumpery ambitions!” echoed Cicely—­“My dear, they are ambitions for which nearly all women are willing to scramble, fight and die!  To be a Duchess!  To dwell in an ancient ‘restored’ castle of once proud English nobles!  Saint Moses!  Who wouldn’t sacrifice such vague matters as heart, life and soul for the glory of being called ’Your Grace’ by obsequious footmen!  My unconventional Maryllia!  You are setting yourself in rank, heretical opposition to the conventionalities of society, and won’t all the little conventional minds hate you for it!”

“It doesn’t matter if they do,”—­rejoined Maryllia—­“I have never been loved since my father’s death,—­so I don’t mind being hated.”

“I love you!” said Cicely, with swift ardour—­“Don’t say you have never been loved!”

Maryllia caught her hand tenderly and kissed it.

“I was not thinking of you, dear!” she said—­“Forgive me!  I was thinking of men.  They have admired me and flirted with me,—­many of them have wanted to marry me, in order to get hold of Aunt Emily’s fortune with me,—­but none of them have ever loved me.  Cicely, Cicely, I want to be loved!”

“So do I!” said Cicely, with answering light in her eyes—­“But I don’t see how it’s going to be done in my case!  You may possibly get your wish, but I!—­why, my dear, I see myself in futur-oe as a ‘prima donna assoluta’ perhaps, with several painted and padded bassi and tenori making sham love to me in opera till I get perfectly sick of cuore and amore, and cry out for something else by way of a change!  I am quite positive that love,—­love such as we read of in poetry and romance, doesn’t really exist!  And I have another fixed opinion—­which is, that the people who write most about it have never felt it.  One always expresses best, even in a song, the emotions one has never experienced.”

Maryllia looked at her in a little wonder.

“Do you really think that?”

“I do!  It’s not one of Gigue’s sayings, though I know I often echo Gigue!”