"
"It doesn't sound much," Cecilia said. "There never is anything very
much. Only it goes on all the time." She told him the story of her day,
and managed to make herself laugh now and then over it. But Bob did not
laugh. His good-humoured young face was set and angry.
"There isn't a whole lot in it, is there?" Cecilia finished. "And no
one would think I was badly off--especially when the thing that hit me
hardest of all was just dusting that awful drawing-room while she plays
her awful tunes. Yes, I know I shouldn't say awful, and that no lady
says it--that must be true because Mrs. Rainham frequently tells me
so--but it's such a relief to say whatever I feel like."
"You can say what you jolly well please," said Bob wrathfully. "Who's
she, I'd like to know, to tell us what to say? And she kept you there
all the afternoon, when she knew you were due to meet me!--my hat, she
is a venomous old bird! And now it's half-past four, and what time does
she expect you back?"
"Oh--the usual thing; the children's tea-time at six. She told me not to
be late."
Bob set his jaw.
"Well, you won't be late, because you won't be there," he said. "No
going back to tea for you. We'll have dinner at the Petit Riche in Soho,
and then we'll do a theatre, and then I'll take you home and we'll face
the music. Are you game?"
Cecilia laughed.
"Game? Why, of course--but there will be awful scenes, Bobby.
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