"It will soon be over now,"--said Cicely, consolingly, one afternoon in the last week of Maryllia's entertaining--"And oh, how glad we shall be when everybody has gone!"
"There's one person who won't go, I'm afraid!" said Maryllia.
"Roxmouth? Well, even HE can't stay at Badsworth Hall for ever!"
"No,--but he can stay as long as he likes,--long enough to work mischief. Sir Morton Pippitt won't send him away,--we may be sure of that!"
"If HE doesn't go, I suppose WE must?" queried Cicely tentatively.
Maryllia's eyes grew sad and wistful.
"I'm afraid so--I don't know--we shall see!"--she replied slowly-- "Something will have to be settled one way or another--pleasantly or unpleasantly."
Cicely's black brows almost met across her nose in a meditative frown.
"What a shame it is that you can't be left in peace, Maryllia!"--she exclaimed--"And all because of your aunt's horrible money! Why doesn't Roxmouth marry Mrs. Fred?"
"I wish he would!" said Maryllia, heartily, and then she began to laugh. "Then it would be a case of 'Oh my prophetic soul! mine uncle!' And I should be able to say: 'My aunt is a Duchess.' Imagine the pride and glory of it!"
Cicely joined in her laughter.
"It WOULD be funny!" she said--"But whatever happens, I do hope Roxmouth isn't going to drive us away from the Manor this summer. You won't let him, will you?"
Maryllia hesitated a moment.
"It will depend on circumstances," she said, at last--"If he persists in staying at Badsworth, I must leave the neighbourhood. There's no help for it. It would only be for a short time, of course--and it seems hard, when I have only just come home, as it were,--but there,--never mind, Cicely! We'll treat it as a game of hare and hounds,--and we'll baffle the hounds somehow!"
Cicely gave a comic gesture of resignation to the inevitable.
"Anyhow, if we want a man to help us,"--she said,--"There's Gigue. Fortunately he's here now."
Gigue WAS there--very certainly there, and all there. Louis Gigue, renowned throughout the world for his culture of the human voice divine, had arrived the previous day direct from Paris, and had exploded into the Manor as though he were a human bombshell. He had entered at the hour of afternoon tea, wild-eyed, wild-haired, travel-soiled, untidy and eminently good-natured, and had taken everybody by surprise. He had rushed up to Maryllia, and seizing her hand had kissed it rapturously,--he had caught Cicely in his arms and embraced her enthusiastically with a 'Mon enfant prodigue!' and, tossing his grizzled locks from off his broad forehead, he had seated himself, sans ceremonie, amidst the company, as though he had known everyone present all his life.