Her head appeared, an inquiring
look upon her face. Mrs. Brindley nodded. Mil-
dred, her hair done close to her head, a dressing-robe
over her nightgown and her bare feet in little slippers,
came down the hall. She coiled herself up in a big
chair in the library and lit a cigarette. She looked
like a handsome young boy.
``He told you?'' she said to Mrs. Brindley.
``Yes,'' replied Cyrilla.
Silence. In all their intimate acquaintance there had
never been an approach to the confidential on either
side. It was Cyrilla's notion that confidences were a
mistake, and that the more closely people were thrown
together the more resolutely they ought to keep certain
barriers between them. She and Mildred got on too
admirably, liked each other too well, for there to be
any trifling with their relations--and over-intimacy
inevitably led to trifling. Mildred had restrained
herself because Mrs. Brindley had compelled it by rigid
example. Often she had longed to talk things over,
to ask advice; but she had never ventured further than
generalities, and Mrs.
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