Millicent Dorrington (9781509826056) by Crompton Richmal

Author:Crompton, Richmal
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Macmillan Pub Ltd
Published: 2017-04-10T10:43:47+00:00

Chapter Two

I

Cecily, very tall for her fifteen years, and loose-limbed like a young colt, sprawled upon the window-seat of the study reading a book, her head propped on her hand, her long golden plait over her shoulder. She looked up and smiled as Hugh entered, but did not move.

“Hello!” she said.

“Hello!” he answered, closing the door behind him and smiling back at her. “Why didn’t you come downstairs?”

“I didn’t want to. I knew there’d only be dull old people I didn’t want to talk to.”

He bowed.

“Thank you.”

“I didn’t mean you, Hugh darling,” she said, moving her feet lazily to make room for him on the window-seat and raising a reddened cheek from her supporting hand. “I didn’t know you’d come.”

“Well, see what you might have missed—not to speak of some perfectly glorious cakes.”

“I shan’t miss the cakes. I shall go down as soon as I hear every one’s gone and eat all the cakes that are left. Are there any with orange icing?”

“I don’t know. I’m not greedy enough to find out.”

“You are! You had three pieces of cake at my birthday party.”

“I’m going to change the subject. May I smoke?”

“If you’ll make rings.”

“I’ve been practising awfully hard since you said I didn’t make them as nicely as Ronnie.”

“I didn’t mean it,” she said, penitent. “I think you do everything more nicely than Ronnie.”

“What are you reading?”

“The Tale of Two Cities. It’s frightfully thrilling.”

“Isn’t it? How far have you got?”

“Just to where Miss Manette imagines that she hears the footsteps of the people who’re going to come into her life.”

“I remember.”

“It is funny, isn’t it, to think of people going on ordinarily for years and not knowing anything about each other and then suddenly meeting and each being just a little tiny bit different always afterwards. It’s almost as funny as the thought of Time.”

“Is that funny?”

“Yes,” she said earnestly, “by ‘funny’ I mean—strange, of course . . . to think of each little tiny second making us a little tiny bit older all the time and never stopping for a second and nothing ever going back and everything we do changing into the Past almost before it stopped being the Present.”

He laughed.

“You’re a philosopher,” he said. “Been writing any more poems?”

“One . . . you won’t tell anyone about it if I show you?”

“Have I ever told anyone?”

“No. You’re nice. I shouldn’t show you them if you weren’t. Here it is. Read it to yourself.”

He read in silence.

She looked at him with bright unfaltering eyes when he had finished.

“Do you like it?” she said naively.

“Yes . . . it’s awfully good. May I keep it?”

“I’ll copy it out for you. I’m ever so glad you like it—but you won’t tell anyone, will you?”

“Of course not.”

“Will you read to me, Hugh darling?”

“Let me finish my cigarette.”

“All right. But blow rings. You’re being lazy.”

“I won’t be bullied.”

“All right. Was Millicent downstairs?”

“Yes.”

“I think she looks beautiful in her new dress, don’t you?”

“Yes . . . That was a lovely one, wasn’t it?”

She clapped her hands.

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