"I know, sir. But, bless you, it's me that will look downtrodden," said Bob with a grin. "She bullies me horribly--always did." He slipped his hand through her arm, and they looked up at him with such radiant faces that the old man smiled involuntarily.

"Ah, I think you'll be all right," he said. "Remember, Miss Tommy, I'll expect to hear from you--fairly often, too. I shall not say good-bye now--you'll see me on Friday at luncheon."

They found themselves down in the grey precincts of Lincoln's Inn, which, it may be, had rarely seen two young things prancing along so dementedly. In the street they had to sober down, to outward seeming; but there was still something about them, as they hurried off to find a teashop to discuss final details, that made people turn to look at them. Even the waitress beamed on them, and supplied them with her best cakes--and London waitresses are a bored race. But at the moment, neither Cecilia nor Bob could have told you whether they were eating cakes or sausages.

"The money is all right," Bob said. "It'll be available at a Melbourne bank when we get there; and meanwhile, there's plenty of ready money, with what I've saved and my war gratuity. So if you want anything, Tommy, you just say so, and don't go without any pretties just because you think we'll be in the workhouse."

"Bless you--but I don't really need anything," she told him gratefully.

"It would be nice to have a little money to spend at the ports, but I think we ought to keep the rest for Australia, don't you, Bob?"

"Oh, yes, of course; but you're not to go without a few pounds if you want 'em," said Bob. "And, Tommy, don't leave meeting me on Friday until lunch time. I'll be worrying if you do, just in case things may have gone wrong. Make it eleven o'clock at the Bond Street tube exit, and if you're not there in half an hour I'll jolly well go and fetch you."

"I'll be there," Cecilia nodded. "You had better give me the half-hour's grace, though, in case I might be held up at the last moment. One never knows--and Avice and Wilfred are excellent little watchdogs."

"Anyhow, you won't have the she-dragon to reckon with, and that's a big thing," Bob said. "I don't see how you can have any trouble--Papa certainly will not give you any."

"No, he won't bother," said Cecilia slowly. "It's queer to think how little he counts--our own father."

"A pretty shoddy apology for one, I think," Bob said bitterly. "What has he ever done for us? But I'd forgive him that when I can't forgive him something else--the way he has let you be treated these two years."

"He hasn't known everything, Bobby."

"He has known quite enough. And if he had the spirit of a man he'd have saved you from it. No; we don't owe him any consideration, Tommy; and he saw to it years ago that we should never owe him any affection. So we really needn't worry our heads about him. By the way, there are to be some Australians on the Nauru who General Harran says may be of use to us--I don't remember their names, but he's going to give me a letter to them. And probably there will be some other flying people whom I may know. I think the voyage ought to be rather good fun."

"I think so, too. It will be exciting to be on a troopship," Cecilia said. "But, then, anything will be heavenly after Lancaster Gate!"

She hurried home, as soon as the little meal was over, knowing that Mrs. Rainham would be impatiently awaiting her. Luckily, her success in matching the tr.i.m.m.i.n.g made her stepmother forget how long she had been away; and from that moment until a welcome four-wheeler removed the mistress of the house on Wednesday, she sewed and packed for her unceasingly. Her journey excited Mrs. Rainham greatly. She talked almost affably of her sister's grandeur, and of the certainty of meeting wealthy and gorgeously dressed people at her party.

"Not that I'll be at all ashamed of my dress," she added, looking at the billowy waves on which Cecilia was plastering yet more tr.i.m.m.i.n.g.

"Unusual and artistic, that's what it is; and it'll show off my hair.

Don't forget the darning when I'm gone, Cecilia. There's a tablecloth to mend, as well as the stockings. I'll be home on Sat.u.r.day night, unless they persuade me to stay over the week-end."

Cecilia nodded, sewing busily.

"And just see if you can't get on a bit better with the children. You've got to make allowances for their high spirits, and treat them tactfully.

Of course you can't expect them to be as obedient to you as they would be to a regular governess, you being their own half-sister, and not so much older than Avice, after all. But tact does wonders, especially with children."

"Yes," said Cecilia, and said no more.

"Well, just bear it in mind. I don't suppose you'll see much of your father, so you needn't worry about him. But don't let Eliza gossip and idle; she never does any work if she's not kept up to it, and you know you're much too familiar with her. Always keep girls like her at a distance, and they'll work all the better, that's what I say. Treat her as an equal, and the next thing you know she'll be trying on your hats!"

"I haven't caught Eliza at that yet," said Cecilia with the ghost of a smile.

"It'll come, though, if you're not more stand-offish with her--you mark my words. Keep them in their place--that's what I always do with my servants and governesses," said Mrs. Rainham without the slightest idea that she was saying anything peculiar. "Now, I'll go and put my things out on my bed, and as soon as you've finished that you can come up and pack for me."

Cecilia stood at the hall door that afternoon to watch her go--bustling into the cab, with loud directions to the cabman, her hard face full of self-importance and satisfaction. The plump hand waved a highly scented handkerchief as the clumsy four-wheeler moved off.

"To think I'll never see you again!" breathed the girl. "It seems too good to be true!"

A kind of wave of relief seemed to have descended upon the house. The children were openly exulting in having no one to obey; an att.i.tude which, in the circ.u.mstances, failed to trouble their half-sister. Eliza went about her work with a cheery face; even Cook, down in the bas.e.m.e.nt, manifested lightness of heart by singing love songs in a cracked soprano and by making scones for afternoon tea. Mark Rainham did not come home until late--he had announced his intention of dining at his club. Late in the evening he sauntered into the dining-room, where Cecilia sat sewing.

"Still at it?" he asked. He sat down and poked the fire. "What are you sewing?"

"Just darning," Cecilia told him.

He sat looking at her for a while--at the pretty face and the well-tended hair; and who shall say what thoughts stirred in his dull brain?

"You look a bit pale," he said at last. "Do you go out enough?"

"Oh, yes, I think so," Cecilia answered in astonishment. Not in two years had he shown so much interest in her; and it braced her to a sudden resolve. She had never been quite satisfied to leave him without a word; whatever he was, he was still her father. She put her darning on her knee, and looked at him gravely.

"You know Bob is demobilized, don't you, Papa?"

"Yes--he told me so," Mark Rainham answered.

"And you know he wants to take me away?"

Her father's eyes wavered and fell before her.

"Oh, yes--but the idea's ridiculous, I'm afraid. You're under age, and your stepmother won't hear of it." He poked the fire savagely.

"But if Bob could make a home for me! We have always been together, you know, Papa."

"Oh, well--wait and see. Time enough when you're twenty-one, and your own mistress; Bob will have had a chance to make good by then. I--I can't oppose my wife in the matter--she says she's not strong enough to do without your help."

"But she never seems satisfied with me."

Mark Rainham rose with an irritably nervous movement.

"Oh, no one is ever perfect. I suspect, if each of you went a little way to meet the other, things would be better. Your stepmother says her nerves are all wrong, and I'm sure you do take a great deal of trouble off her shoulders."

"Then you won't let me go?" The girl's low voice was relentless, and her father wriggled as though he were a beetle and she were pinning him down.

"I--I'm afraid it's out of the question, Cecilia. I should have to be very satisfied first that Bob could offer you a home--and by that time he'll probably be thinking of getting married, and won't want you. Why can't you settle down comfortably to living at home?"

"There isn't any home for me apart from Bob," said the girl.

"Well, I can't help it." Mark Rainham's voice had a hopeless tone. He walked to the door, and then half turned. "If you can make my wife agree to your going, I won't forbid it. Good night."

"Good night," said Cecilia. The slow footsteps went up the stairs, and she turned to her darning with a lip that curled in scorn.

"Well, that let's me out. I don't owe you anything--not even a good-bye note on my pincushion," she said presently; and laughed a little. She folded a finished pair of socks deliberately, and, rising, stretched her arms luxuriously above her head. "Two more days," she whispered. She switched off the light, and crept noiselessly upstairs.

CHAPTER VII

THE WATCH DOGS