ughs did not
believe she would do anything of the kind; from which she concluded that
the seamstress was convinced of Hilary's interest in the little model.
She said hastily:

"You can go now, Mrs. Hughs."

Mrs. Hughs went, making no noise or sign of any sort.

Cecilia returned to her scattered thoughts. They lay there still, with a
gleam of sun from the low window smearing their importance; she felt
somehow that it did not now matter very much whether she and Stephen, in
the interests of science, saw that man fall from his balloon, or, in the
interests of art, heard Herr von Kraaffe sing his Polish songs; she
experienced, too, almost a revulsion in favour of tinned milk. After
meditatively tearing up her note to Messrs. Rose and Thorn, she lowered
the bureau lid and left the room.

Mounting the stairs, whose old oak banisters on either side were a real
joy, she felt she was stupid to let vague, sordid rumours, which, after
all, affected her but indirectly, disturb her morning's work. And
entering Stephen's dressing-room she stood looking at his boots.

Inside each one of them was a wooden soul; none had any creases, none had
any holes. The moment they wore out, their wooden souls were taken from
them and their bodies given to the poor, whilst--in accordance with that
theory, to hear a course of lectures on which a scattered thought was
even now inviting her--the wooden souls migrated instantly to other
leathern bodies.

Looking at that polished row of boots, Cecilia felt lonely and
unsatisfied. Stephen worked in the Law Courts, Thyme worked at Art; both
were doing something definite. She alone, it seemed, had to wait at
home, and order dinner, answer letters, shop, pay calls, and do a dozen
things that failed to stop her thoughts from dwelling on that woman's
tale. She was not often conscious of the nature of her life, so like the
lives of many hundred women in this London, which she said she could not
stand, but which she stood very well. As a rule, with practical good
sense, she kept her doubting eyes fixed friendlily on every little phase
in turn, enjoying well enough fitting the Chinese puzzle of her scattered
thoughts, setting out on each small adventure with a certain cautious
zest, and taking Stephen with her as far as he allowed. This last year
or so, now that Thyme was a grown girl, she had felt at once a loss of
purpose and a gain of liberty. She hardly knew whether to be glad or
sorry. It f