When William Came HTML version

The Singing-Bird And The Barometer
Cicely Yeovil sat in a low swing chair, alternately looking at herself in a mirror and at the
other occupant of the room in the flesh. Both prospects gave her undisguised
satisfaction. Without being vain she was duly appreciative of good looks, whether in
herself or in another, and the reflection that she saw in the mirror, and the young man
whom she saw seated at the piano, would have come with credit out of a more severely
critical inspection. Probably she looked longer and with greater appreciation at the piano
player than at her own image; her good looks were an inherited possession, that had been
with her more or less all her life, while Ronnie Storre was a comparatively new
acquisition, discovered and achieved, so to speak, by her own enterprise, selected by her
own good taste. Fate had given her adorable eyelashes and an excellent profile. Ronnie
was an indulgence she had bestowed on herself.
Cicely had long ago planned out for herself a complete philosophy of life, and had
resolutely set to work to carry her philosophy into practice. “When love is over how little
of love even the lover understands,” she quoted to herself from one of her favourite poets,
and transposed the saying into “While life is with us how little of life even the materialist
understands.” Most people that she knew took endless pains and precautions to preserve
and prolong their lives and keep their powers of enjoyment unimpaired; few, very few,
seemed to make any intelligent effort at understanding what they really wanted in the
way of enjoying their lives, or to ascertain what were the best means for satisfying those
wants. Fewer still bent their whole energies to the one paramount aim of getting what
they wanted in the fullest possible measure. Her scheme of life was not a wholly selfish
one; no one could understand what she wanted as well as she did herself, therefore she
felt that she was the best person to pursue her own ends and cater for her own wants. To
have others thinking and acting for one merely meant that one had to be perpetually
grateful 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 method of carrying them into effect, compared the accumulated
results of her experiments, and gradually arrived at a very clear idea of what she wanted
in life, and how best to achieve it. She was not by disposition a self-centred soul,
therefore she did not make the mistake of supposing that one can live successfully and
gracefully in a crowded world without taking due notice of the other human elements
around one. She was instinctively far more thoughtful for others than many a person who
is genuinely but unseeingly addicted to unselfishness.
Also she kept in her armoury the weapon which can be so mightily effective if used
sparingly by a really sincere individual—the knowledge of when to be a humbug.
Ambition entered to a certain extent 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 escape
would have to be effected in her own way and in her own time; to be governed by
ambition was only a shade or two better than being governed by convention.