in a false
position. And--it's ugly nonsense! B. can be so disagreeable; even now
she's not--on terms with him!' And suddenly the thought of Mr. Purcey
leaped into her mind--Mr. Purcey, who, as Mrs. Tallents Smallpeace had
declared, was not even conscious that there was a problem of the poor.
To think of him seemed somehow at that moment comforting, like rolling
oneself in a blanket against a draught. Passing into her room, she
opened her wardrobe door.

'Bother the woman!' she thought. 'I do want that gentian dress got
ready, but now I simply can't give it to her to do.'

CHAPTER VIII

THE SINGLE MIND OF MR. STONE

Since in the flutter of her spirit caused by the words of Mrs. Hughs,
Cecilia felt she must do something, she decided to change her dress.

The furniture of the pretty room she shared with Stephen had not been
hastily assembled. Conscious, even fifteen years ago, when they moved
into this house, of the grave Philistinism of the upper classes, she and
Stephen had ever kept their duty to aestheticism green; and, in the
matter of their bed, had lain for two years on two little white affairs,
comfortable, but purely temporary, that they might give themselves a
chance. The chance had come at last--a bed in real keeping with the
period they had settled on, and going for twelve pounds. They had not
let it go, and now slept in it--not quite so comfortable, perhaps, but
comfortable enough, and conscious of duty done.

For fifteen years Cecilia had been furnishing her house; the process
approached completion. The only things remaining on her mind--apart,
that is, from Thyme's development and the condition of the people--were:
item, a copper lantern that would allow some light to pass its framework;
item, an old oak washstand not going back to Cromwell's time. And now
this third anxiety had come!

She was rather touching, as she stood before the wardrobe glass divested
of her bodice, with dimples of exertion in her thin white arms while she
hooked her skirt behind, and her greenish eyes troubled, so anxious to do
their best for everyone, and save risk of any sort. Having put on a
bramble-coloured frock, which laced across her breast with silver
lattice-work, and a hat (without feathers, so as to encourage birds)
fastened to her head with pins (bought to aid a novel school of
metal-work), she went to see what sort of day it was.

The window looked out at the back over some dreary streets, wher