hing but a sort of queer haunting naivete' to give her charm--might
even be a finger used by Fate! Cecilia sat very still before that sudden
vision of the girl. There was no staid mare to guard that foal with the
dark devotion of her eye. There was no wise whinnying to answer back
those tiny whinnies; no long look round to watch the little creature
nodding to sleep on its thin trembling legs in the hot sunlight; no ears
to prick up and hoofs to stamp at the approach of other living things.
These thoughts passed through Cecilia's mind and were gone, being too far
and pale to stay. Turning the page which she had not been reading, she
heaved a sigh. Thyme sighed also.

"These worms are fearfully interesting," she said. "Is anybody coming in
this afternoon?"

"Mrs. Tallents Smallpeace was going to bring a young man in, a Signor
Pozzi-Egregio Pozzi, or some such name. She says he is the coming
pianist." Cecilia's face was spiced with faint amusement. Some strain
of her breeding (the Carfax strain, no doubt) still heard such names and
greeted such proclivities with an inclination to derision.

Thyme snatched up her book. "Well," she said, "I shall be in the attic.
If anyone interesting comes you might send up to me."

She stood, luxuriously stretching, and turning slowly round in a streak
of sunlight so as to bathe her body in it. Then, with a long soft yawn,
she flung up her chin till the sun streamed on her face. Her eyelashes
rested on cheeks already faintly browned; her lips were parted; little
shivers of delight ran down her; her chestnut hair glowed, burnished by
the kisses of the sun.

'Ah!' Cecilia thought, 'if that other girl were like this, now, I could
understand well enough!'

"Oh, Lord!" said Thyme, "there they are!" She flew towards the door.

"My dear," murmured Cecilia, "if you must go, do please tell Father."

A minute later Mrs. Tallents Smallpeace came in, followed by a young man
with an interesting, pale face and a crop of dusky hair.

Let us consider for a minute the not infrequent case of a youth cursed
with an Italian mother and a father of the name of Potts, who had
baptised him William. Had he emanated from the lower classes, he might
with impunity have ground an organ under the name of Bill; but springing
from the bourgeoisie, and playing Chopin at the age of four, his friends
had been confronted with a problem of no mean difficulty. Heaven, on the
threshold of his career, had int