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Updated: August 11, 2024
She dresses well and carries herself with a kind of sweet haughtiness. She looks as if she knew a lot and nothing bad. Do you know, I can't imagine her having been married to that beast! I've tried to imagine it. I simply can't." "I shouldn't try if I were you," said Mrs. Brindley. "But I was talking about why I love her. Does this bore you?" "A little," laughed Cyrilla.
She was not working to "interpret the thought of the great master" or to "advance the singing art yet higher" or even to win fame and applause. She had one object to earn her living on the grand opera stage, and to earn it as a prima donna because that meant the best living. She frankly told Cyrilla that this was her object, when Cyrilla forced her one day to talk about her aims.
Cyrilla looked at the paper with a heavy sigh. "Ah, I wish I had seen this when I was your age. Now, it's too late." Said Mildred: "Would you seriously advise me to try that?" Cyrilla came and sat beside her and put an arm around her. "Mildred," she said, "I've never thrust advice on you. I only dare do it now because you ask me, and because I love you. You must try it. It's your one chance.
It was not snowing in the early morning, and Uncle Leopold drove Aunt Cyrilla and Lucy Rose and the basket to the station, four miles off. When they reached there the air was thick with flying flakes. The stationmaster sold them their tickets with a grim face. "If there's any more snow comes, the trains might as well keep Christmas too," he said.
Is there any hope for a woman with a delicate throat to make a grand-opera career?" Cyrilla paled, looked pleadingly at Mildred. "Tell him," commanded Mildred. "Very little," said Mrs. Brindley. "But " "Don't try to soften it," interrupted Mildred. "The truth, the plain truth." "You've no right to draw me into this," cried Cyrilla indignantly, and she started to leave the room.
Then the two women smiled tenderly at each other. Afterwards they rested from their labours and all had what Aunt Cyrilla called a "snack" of sandwiches and pound cake. The khaki boy said he hadn't tasted anything half so good since he left home. "They didn't give us pound cake in South Africa," he said. When morning came the storm was still raging.
"A minister," reflected Aunt Cyrilla, beginning to classify, "who takes better care of other folks' souls than of his own body; and that woman in the sealskin is discontented and cross at something got up too early to catch the train, maybe; and that young chap must be one of the boys not long out of the hospital.
She wandered aimlessly on around the upper reservoir where the strong breeze freshened her through and through and made her feel less forlorn in spite of her chicken heart. She crossed the bridge at the lower end and came down toward the East Drive. A taxicab rushed by, not so fast, however, that she failed to recognize Donald Keith and Cyrilla Brindley.
She had tried in vain to discover what there was in Keith that inspired such intense liking in two people so widely different as expansive and emotional Stanley Baird and reserved and distinctly cold Cyrilla Brindley. Keith talked little, not only seemed not to listen well, but showed plainly, even in tete-a-tete conversations, that his thoughts had been elsewhere.
I know my own mind, now." She did not note the pathetic tenderness of Cyrilla's face as she said, "Good night, Mildred." But she did note the use of her first name and her own right first name for the first time since they had known each other. She embraced and kissed her again. "Good night, Cyrilla," she said gratefully.
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