“Well,” said Cicily, finally, “all right. Shoot. I suppose you have to get it off your chest.” She turned abruptly as she spoke and flung herself moodily down on the hearthrug. She tossed off her little black hat and dark fox fur. The snow on them was melting rapidly in the heat from the fire. There was quite a little puddle on the light grey rug before Jane spoke again.
“Cicily,” she began slowly, “I don’t—I don’t know quite what’s happening, but I know it’s dangerous. I know you’re not behaving—just the way you ought to behave. Don’t think I don’t sympathize with you, because I do—” She stopped, checked by the sight of the little scornful smile that was flickering on Cicily’s lips, then continued lamely, “I do sympathize with you, Cicily, but—”
“But you believe in the Ten Commandments,” said Cicily brightly. “Especially the seventh. Well—so do I, Mumsy, and I haven’t broken it. There. Will that satisfy you?”
“Cicily,” said Jane reproachfully, “I’m not joking.”
“Neither am I,” said Cicily promptly. “I don’t think adultery’s a joke. And I shouldn’t dream of committing it. Some do, of course, but I’ve always thought they were fools. I’m keeping my head, Mumsy, I’m keeping it like anything. But I haven’t made up my mind. Until I do, I don’t see what’s the use of discussion.”
“You don’t see—what’s the use of discussion?” faltered Jane.
“No, I don’t,” said Cicily bluntly. “It’s my affair. Mine and Albert’s. And, in a secondary capacity, of course, Jack’s and Belle’s. It’s a very difficult situation, and it all depends on me. I don’t want to make any mistake!”
“But Cicily!”—Jane’s protest was almost shrill—“you are making a mistake! You’re making one this minute! It’s a terrible mistake for you to sit there and talk as if there were anything but one thing to do!”
“And what’s that?” said Cicily ironically.
“Put Albert Lancaster out of your life immediately,” said Jane firmly. “And forget him as soon as you can.” She regretted her sharp words as soon as they were spoken. They seemed absurdly melodramatic, punctured by Cicily’s light monosyllable.
“Why?”
“Why?” echoed Jane. “Why, because you’re a married woman with three dear children and Albert’s a married man with three children of his own. Because Belle was your best friend and Jack’s always been a good and loyal husband—”
Jane stopped for breath.
“Yes,” said Cicily slowly. “Jack’s always been a good and loyal husband and I’ve always been a good and loyal wife. We’ve been married nearly ten years and I’m horribly bored with him. He’s really bored with me, though, of course, he won’t admit it. It would be perfectly impossible for either of us to recapture the emotion that brought us together. It’s gone forever. The same thing is perfectly true of Belle and Albert. I’ve fallen in love with Albert. He’s fallen in love with me. I can’t see why that situation has anything to do with a dead past. I’m not robbing Jack if I give my love to Albert. Jack hasn’t had my love for years. I’m not robbing Belle if Albert gives his love to me. Belle had her innings ten years ago. I don’t grudge them to her. But it’s my turn now.”
“Cicily!” cried Jane in horror. “You mustn’t talk like that! You mustn’t think like that!”
“Why not?” said Cicily. “What are your brains given you for, except to think with? I believe in being practical. That’s why I haven’t made up my mind. There are a great many practical difficulties to consider. If I should divorce Jack—”
“Divorce Jack?” cried Jane.
“And Belle should divorce Albert,” continued Cicily imperturbably, “there would still be a lot of adjustments to be made. There are the children for one thing—”
“I’m glad you give them a passing thought,” said Jane ironically.
“Don’t be sarcastic, Mumsy,” smiled Cicily cheerfully. “It’s not your line. You know I adore my children. And Albert’s are sweet. The children do present complications. But perhaps we could solve them. They’re all awfully young. They’d soon get used to it. I like the lovely picture of a sweet, united home, just as much as you do, Mumsy. But our homes aren’t sweet and united. There’s no use kidding yourself that they are. But”—Cicily’s young face clouded thoughtfully as she spoke—“you see there’s the money.”
“The what?” cried Jane. This conversation was really taking on the horror of a nightmare.
“The money,” said Cicily. “You see we haven’t got any. Not any to speak of. Aunt Muriel made ducks and drakes of all she had during Uncle Bert’s illness. She gave a lot to Albert during those years abroad. Albert really can’t afford to run two households. Six children and two wives are no joke! He’d want to give Belle a whacking big alimony. I’d want her to have one. On the other hand, I really couldn’t take money from Jack—now, could I?—not even for the support of his children, if I were living with Albert. Perhaps that seems quixotic to you, Mumsy, but—”
“Quixotic!” cried Jane. This must be a nightmare.
“But that’s the way I feel,” ended Cicily tranquilly. Then added abruptly, “Has it ever occurred to you, Mumsy, that Dad only gives me three thousand a year?”
In the midst of the horror a ridiculous impulse to vindicate Stephen rose hotly in Jane’s heart.
“He gave you this house and lot. He gave Jack his job in the bank!”
“They wouldn’t do me much good,” said Cicily calmly, “in the present crisis. I’d ruin Albert. I really would. He wants to get back into the diplomatic service. He’s trying to save a fortune. Of course, there’s Ed Brown—but Albert says he really couldn’t bring himself to come down on him to pay a brand-new stepson’s wife a princely alimony! And I don’t blame him. Ed Brown does seem a trifle remote. Of course, if Dad would settle about three hundred thousand on me—”
Jane rose from her chair.
“Cicily,”
