ss. This was because, for all Cecilia's
resolutions, a joint of beef and Yorkshire pudding would appear on the
luncheon-table, notwithstanding the fact that Mr. Stone--who came when he
remembered that it was Sunday--did not devour the higher mammals. Every
week, when it appeared, Cecilia, who for some reason carved on Sundays,
regarded it with a frown. Next week she would really discontinue it; but
when next week came, there it was, with its complexion that reminded her
so uncomfortably of cabmen. And she would partake of it with unexpected
heartiness. Something very old and deep, some horrible whole-hearted
appetite, derived, no doubt, from Mr. Justice Carfax, rose at that hour
precisely every week to master her. Having given Thyme the second
helping which she invariably took, Cecilia, who detested carving, would
look over the fearful joint at a piece of glass procured by her in
Venice, and at the daffodils standing upright in it, apparently without
support. Had it not been for this joint of beef, which had made itself
smelt all the morning, and would make itself felt all the afternoon, it
need never have come into her mind at all that it was Sunday--and she
would cut herself another slice.

To have told Cecilia that there was still a strain of the Puritan in her
would have been to occasion her some uneasiness, and provoked a strenuous
denial; yet her way of observing Sunday furnished indubitable evidence of
this singular fact. She did more that day than any other. For, in the
morning she invariably "cleared off" her correspondence; at lunch she
carved the beef; after lunch she cleared off the novel or book on social
questions she was reading; went to a concert, clearing off a call on the
way back; and on first Sundays--a great bore--stayed at home to clear off
the friends who came to visit her. In the evening she went to some play
or other, produced by Societies for the benefit of persons compelled,
like her, to keep a Sunday with which they felt no sympathy.

On this particular "first Sunday," having made the circuit of her
drawing-room, which extended the whole breadth of her house, and through
long, low windows cut into leaded panes, looked out both back and front,
she took up Mr. Balladyce's latest book. She sat, with her paper-knife
pressed against the tiny hollow in her flushed cheek, and pretty little
bits of lace and real old jewellery nestling close to her. And while she
turned the pages of Mr. Ba