home in
aunt's house as in my own? I can hardly believe that you mean what you
say."

"You will understand it if you think for a moment. A year ago you
wouldn't have dreamt of going out at night when I stayed at home. But
you find the temptation of society irresistible. People admire you and
talk about you and crowd round you, and you enjoy it--never mind who
the people are. Presently we shall be seeing your portrait in the
shop-windows. I noticed what a satisfaction it was to you when your
name was mentioned among the other people in that idiotic society
journal."

Cecily laughed, but not quite so naturally as she wished it to sound.

"This is too absurd Your dream has unsettled your wits, Reuben. How
could I imagine that you had begun to think of me in such a light? You
used to give me credit for at least average common sense. I can't talk
about it; I am ashamed to defend myself."

He had not spoken angrily, but in a curiously dogged tone, with awkward
emphasis, as if struggling to say what did not come naturally to his
lips. Still walking about, and keeping his eyes on the floor, he
continued in the same half-embarrassed way:

"There's no need for you to defend yourself. I don't exactly mean to
blame you, but to point out a danger."

"Forgetting that you degrade my character in doing so."

"Nothing of the kind, Cecily. But remember how young you are. You know
very little of the world, and often see things in an ideal light. It is
your tendency to idealize. You haven't the experience necessary to a
woman who goes about in promiscuous society."

Cecily knitted her brows.

"Instead of using that vague, commonplace language--which I never
thought to hear from _you_--I wish you would tell me exactly what you
mean. What things do I see in an ideal light? That means, I suppose,
that I am childishly ignorant of common evils in the world. You
couldn't speak otherwise if I had just come out of a convent. And,
indeed, you don't believe what you say. Speak more simply, Reuben. Say
that you distrust my discretion."

"To a certain extent, I do."

"Then there is no more to be said, dear. Please to tell me in future
exactly what you wish me to do, and what to avoid. I will go to school
to your prudence."

The clock ticked very loudly, and, before the silence was again broken,
chimed half-past one.

"Let me give you an instance of what I mean," said Elgar, again seating
himself on the table and fingering his watch-c