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Updated: June 11, 2025
Grant, was high praise. All the others declared that they were delighted with their letters all except Miss Marshall. She said nothing but later on, when Cyrilla was going upstairs, she met Miss Marshall in the shadows of the second landing. "My dear," said Miss Marshall gently, "I want to thank you for your letter, I don't think you can realize just what it has meant to me.
"You're mighty right," said he heartily. "And I admire her for that more than for anything else. I'd trust her anywhere." "You're paying yourself a high compliment," laughed Cyrilla. "How's that?" inquired he. "You're too subtle for me. I'm a bit slow." Mrs. Brindley decided against explaining.
"I wouldn't mind the weather. Letters are such cheery things: especially the letters my sister writes. They're so full of fun and nice little news. The reading of one cheers me up for the day. Cyrilla Blair, what is the matter? You nearly frightened me to death!" Cyrilla had bounded from her bed to the centre of the floor, waving her Greek grammar wildly in the air.
She examined herself in the glass to make sure that the ravages of her attack of rage and grief and despair could be effaced within a few hours, then she wrote a note formal yet friendly to Stanley Baird, informing him that she would receive him that evening. He came while Cyrilla and Mildred were having their after, dinner coffee and cigarettes.
When Aunt Cyrilla and Lucy Rose reached Pembroke there was nobody to meet them because everyone had given up expecting them. It was not far from the station to Edward's house and Aunt Cyrilla elected to walk. "I'll carry the basket," said Lucy Rose. Aunt Cyrilla relinquished it with a smile. Lucy Rose smiled too. "It's a blessed old basket," said the latter, "and I love it.
"Why, hasn't the afternoon gone quickly after all!" exclaimed Carol. "I just let my pen run on and jotted down any good working idea that came into my head. Cyrilla Blair, that big fat letter is never for Miss Marshall! What on earth did you find to write her?" "It wasn't so hard when I got fairly started," said Cyrilla, smiling.
And then there's the awful fear of not being able to hold it." After a moment's silence Mildred, who could not hide away resentment against one she liked, said: "Why aren't YOU satisfied, Mrs. Brindley?" "But I am satisfied," protested Cyrilla. "Only it makes me afraid to see YOU so well satisfied. I've seen that often in people first starting, and it's always dangerous.
Uncle Leopold came in just then, shaking his head dubiously. He was not going to spend Christmas with Edward and Geraldine, and perhaps the prospect of having to cook and eat his Christmas dinner all alone made him pessimistic. "I mistrust you folks won't get to Pembroke tomorrow," he said sagely. "It's going to storm." Aunt Cyrilla did not worry over this.
He was a Cavalier, who hated the Puritans and the Scotch, and invented a dialect which he believed to be their vernacular tongue. Dau. of an Irish gentleman, m. the Baron T., Chamberlain at the Court of Bavaria. She wrote several novels dealing with German life of which the first, The Initials , is perhaps the best. Others were Cyrilla , Quits , and At Odds .
She had nothing more to say. She had talked herself out about Stanley, and her mind was now filled with thoughts that could not be spoken. As she rose to go to bed, she looked appealingly at Cyrilla. Then, with a sudden and shy rush she flung her arms round her and kissed her. "Thank you so much," she said. "You've done me a world of good. Saying it all out loud before YOU has made me see.
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