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Transcribed from the 1914 John Lane edition by David Price, ccx074@coventry.ac.uk

When William Came

CHAPTER I: THE SINGING-BIRD AND THE BAROMETER

Cicely Yeovil sat in a low swing chair, alternately looking at herselfin a mirror and at the other occupant of the room in the flesh. Both prospects gave her undisguised satisfaction.  Without beingvain she was duly appreciative of good looks, whether in herself orin another, and the reflection that she saw in the mirror, and the youngman whom she saw seated at the piano, would have come with credit outof a more severely critical inspection.  Probably she looked longerand with greater appreciation at the piano player than at her own image;her good looks were an inherited possession, that had been with hermore or less all her life, while Ronnie Storre was a comparatively newacquisition, discovered and achieved, so to speak, by her own enterprise,selected by her own good taste.  Fate had given her adorable eyelashesand an excellent profile.  Ronnie was an indulgence she had bestowedon herself.

Cicely had long ago planned out for herself a complete philosophyof life, and had resolutely set to work to carry her philosophy intopractice.  “When love is over how little of love even thelover understands,” she quoted to herself from one of her favouritepoets, and transposed the saying into “While life is with us howlittle of life even the materialist understands.”  Most peoplethat she knew took endless pains and precautions to preserve and prolongtheir lives and keep their powers of enjoyment unimpaired; few, veryfew, seemed to make any intelligent effort at understanding what theyreally wanted in the way of enjoying their lives, or to ascertain whatwere the best means for satisfying those wants.  Fewer still benttheir whole energies to the one paramount aim of getting what they wantedin the fullest possible measure.  Her scheme of life was not awholly selfish one; no one could understand what she wanted as wellas she did herself, therefore she felt that she was the best personto pursue her own ends and cater for her own wants.  To have othersthinking and acting for one merely meant that one had to be perpetuallygrateful for a lot of well-meant and usually unsatisfactory services. It was like the case of a rich man giving a community a free library,when probably the community only wanted free fishing or reduced tram-fares. Cicely studied her own whims and wishes, experimented in the best methodof carrying them into effect, compared the accumulated results of herexperiments, and gradually arrived at a very clear idea of what shewanted in life, and how best to achieve it.  She was not by dispositiona self-centred soul, therefore she did not make the mistake of supposingthat one can live successfully and gracefully in a crowded world withouttaking due notice of the other human elements around one.  Shewas instinctively far more thoughtful for others than many a personwho is genuinely but unseeingly addicted to unselfishness.

Also she kept in her armoury the weapon which can be so mightilyeffective if used sparingly by a really sincere individual—theknowledge of when to be a humbug.  Ambition entered to a certainextent into her life, and governed it perhaps rather more than she knew. She desired to escape from the doom of being a nonentity, but the escapewould have to be effected in her own way and in her own time; to begoverned by ambition was only a shade or two better than being governedby convention.

The drawing-room in which she and Ronnie were sitting was of suchproportions that one hardly knew whether it was intended to be one roomor several, and it had the merit of being moderately cool at two o’clockon a particularly hot July afternoon.  In the coolest of its manyalcoves servants had noiselessly set out an improvised luncheon table:a tempting array of caviare, crab and mushroom salads, cold asparagus,slender hock bottles and high-stemmed wine goblets peeped out from amida setting of Charlotte Klemm roses.

Cicely rose from her seat and went over to the piano.

“Come,” she said, touching the young man lightly witha finger-tip on the top of his very sleek, copper-hued head, “we’regoing to have picnic-lunch to-day up here; it’s so much coolerthan any of the downstairs rooms, and we shan’t be bothered withthe servants trotting in and out all the time.  Rather a good ideaof mine, wasn’t it?”

Ronnie, after looking anxiously to see that the word “picnic”did not portend tongue sandwiches and biscuits, gave the idea his blessing.

“What is young Storre’s profession?” some one hadonce asked concerning him.

“He has a great many friends who have independent incomes,”had been the answer.

The meal was begun in an appreciative silence; a picnic in whichthree kinds of red pepper were available for the caviare demanded acertain amount of respectful attention.

“My heart ought to be like a singing-bird to-day, I suppose,”said Cicely presently.

“Because your good man is coming home?” asked Ronnie.

Cicely nodded.

“He’s expected some time this afternoon, though I’mrather vague as to which train he arrives by.  Rather a stiflingday for railway travelling.”

“And is your heart doing the singing-bird business?”asked Ronnie.

“That depends,” said Cicely, “if I may choose thebird.  A missel-thrush would do, perhaps; it sings loudest in stormyweather, I believe.”

Ronnie disposed of two or three stems of asparagus before makingany comment on this remark.

“Is there going to be stormy weather?” he asked.

“The domestic barometer is set rather that way,” saidCicely.  “You see, Murrey has been away for ever so long,