reed her for the tasting of more things, more people, and
more Stephen; but it left a little void in her heart, a little soreness
round it. What would Thyme think if she heard this story about her uncle?
The thought started a whole train of doubts that had of late beset her.
Was her little daughter going to turn out like herself? If not, why not?
Stephen joked about his daughter's skirts, her hockey, her friendship
with young men. He joked about the way Thyme refused to let him joke
about her art or about her interest in "the people." His joking was a
source of irritation to Cecilia. For, by woman's instinct rather than by
any reasoning process, she was conscious of a disconcerting change.
Amongst the people she knew, young men were not now attracted by girls as
they had been in her young days. There was a kind of cool and friendly
matter-of-factness in the way they treated them, a sort of almost
scientific playfulness. And Cecilia felt uneasy as to how far this was
to go. She seemed left behind. If young people were really becoming
serious, if youths no longer cared about the colour of Thyme's eyes, or
dress, or hair, what would there be left to care for--that is, up to the
point of definite relationship? Not that she wanted her daughter to be
married. It would be time enough to think of that when she was
twenty-five. But her own experiences had been so different. She had
spent so many youthful hours in wondering about men, had seen so many men
cast furtive looks at her; and now there did not seem in men or girls
anything left worth the other's while to wonder or look furtive about.
She was not of a philosophic turn of mind, and had attached no deep
meaning to Stephen's jest--"If young people will reveal their ankles,
they'll soon have no ankles to reveal."

To Cecilia the extinction of the race seemed threatened; in reality her
species of the race alone was vanishing, which to her, of course, was
very much the same disaster. With her eyes on Stephen's boots she
thought: 'How shall I prevent what I've heard from coming to Bianca's
ears? I know how she would take it! How shall I prevent Thyme's
hearing? I'm sure I don't know what the effect would be on her! I must
speak to Stephen. He's so fond of Hilary.'

And, turning away from Stephen's boots, she mused: 'Of course it's
nonsense. Hilary's much too--too nice, too fastidious, to be more than
just interested; but he's so kind he might easily put himself