own it to her."

"Nobody quite knows Jim, except Walter," replied Muriel. "I don't, and
mother doesn't; and dear father never did. I suppose there is not much
doubt about his being rather slow. Slow and sure is just the phrase to
fit him. He is sure of himself when he makes up his mind about a thing,
and I suppose he was sure of Cicely. He was just content to wait. You
know, I'm afraid Walter thinks that Cicely has behaved very badly to
him."

"Do you think so?" asked Mrs. Clinton.

Muriel hesitated. "I think what Walter does," she said, rather doggedly.
"But I don't feel it so much. I love Cicely, and I am very sorry for
her."

"Why are you sorry for her?"

"Oh, well, one could hardly help being after what she has gone through."

"Only that, Muriel?"

Muriel hesitated again. "I don't think she has had quite a fair chance,"
she said.

"She has had the same chances that you have had."

"Not quite, I think," said Muriel. She spoke with her head down and a
face rather flushed, as if she was determined to go through with
something unpleasant. "I'm not as clever as she is, but if I had
been--if I had wanted the sort of things that she wants--I should have
had them."

"I think she could have had them, if she had really wanted them," said
Mrs. Clinton quietly. "I think I should have seen that she did have
them."

"Oh, dear Mrs. Clinton, don't think I'm taking it on myself to blame
you. You know I wouldn't do that. But I must say what I think. Life is
desperately dull for a girl at houses like Kencote or Mountfield."

"Kencote and Mountfield?"

"Well, don't be angry with me if I say it is much more dull at Kencote
than at Mountfield. Cicely isn't even allowed to hunt. I was, and yet I
was glad enough to get away from it, although I love country life, and
so does Walter. We never see anybody, we never go anywhere. I am heaps
and heaps happier in this little house of my own than I was at
Mountfield."

"Muriel," said Mrs. Clinton "what is it that Cicely wants? You and she
talk of the same things. First it is one thing and then it is another.
First it is that she has had no chances of learning. What has she ever
shown that she wants to learn? Then it is that she does not go away, and
does not see new faces. Is that a thing of such importance that the want
of it should lead to what has happened? Then it is that she is not
allowed to hunt! I will not add to Cicely's trouble now by rebuking
these desires. Only the