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Let one imagine this pale face, with its sparkling black glances, its red, moist, and glossy lips, which shine like wet coral. Let us say that this tall Creole, slender, fleshy, strong and active as a panther, was the type of that sensuality which is only lighted up by the fires of the tropics. Such was Cecily. She was once the slave of a Louisiana planter, who designed her for his harem.
Sara Ray had also yearned to stay, but could not because her mother had told her she must be home before dark. "Never mind, Sara," comforted Cecily. "It's not to be till two o'clock to-morrow, so you'll have plenty of time to get up here before anything happens." "But there might be a mistake," sobbed Sara. "It might be two o'clock to-night instead of to-morrow." It might, indeed.
"Only," he went on, "you can't walk in that way just because you think it's a good one!" He sat between Lady Cecily and Mary at supper, but he did not talk a great deal to either of them, for Mary was chattering excitedly to Sir Geoffrey Mundane, and Cecily was persuading Ninian that engineering had always been the passion of her life.
The house was just covered with ivy and there was a most delightful old garden "and," added the Story Girl, with the joy of a connoisseur who has found a rare gem, "the sweetest little story connected with it. And I saw the hero of the story too." "Where was the heroine?" queried Cecily. "She is dead." "Oh, of course she'd have to die," exclaimed Dan in disgust.
They call it poison when you take too much of it; but poison means sleep and rest and the end of pain." Cecily listened as though some one spoke from beyond the grave; that strange voice made all the world unreal. "Do you believe in a life after this?" asked Madeline, with earnestness. "I know nothing," was the answer. "Neither do I. It matters nothing to me.
Henry had said to himself on several occasions that he would go and see Lady Cecily, but he had not done so. He did not care to go alone, and he cared less to ask Gilbert to go with him ... but to-day, as suddenly as she had quitted his thoughts, Lady Cecily came into them again, and, as he sat on top of the omnibus, he hoped that he would see her in the Park.
There, to the right, is sweet Cecily of the dear, brown eyes, with a little bloated dictionary beside her for you dream of so many things you can't spell, or be expected to spell, when you are only eleven. Next to her sits Felicity, beautiful, and conscious that she is beautiful, with hair of spun sunshine, and sea-blue eyes, and all the roses of that vanished summer abloom in her cheeks.
'Duffer, Cis! cried Hilary, contemptuously, for Cecily had appointed herself professional peacemaker to the family, and her efforts were about as successful as such domestic offices ever are. 'Look out! cried Hilary, presently; 'they're coming. Don't let's take the least notice of them. They hate that more than anything.
"It doesn't interest you. You care nothing where he goes, or what he does nothing whatever, Miriam. He told me so; but I knew it already." "He told you so?" Miriam asked, with cold surprise. "Yes. You are unkind; you are unnatural." "And you, Cecily, are childish. I never knew you so childish as to-day." "I warned you. He and I had a long talk before aunt came home."
Less by what they contained than by what they omitted, she knew that Cecily was undergoing a great change. Miriam put at length certain definite questions, and the answers she received were unsatisfactory, alarming. The correspondence became a distinct source of trouble.
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