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 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
lea