She looked back meditatively upon her past life.

“How do you spend your day?” he asked.

She meditated still.  When she thought of their day it seemed to her it was cut into four pieces by their meals.  These divisions were absolutely rigid, the contents of the day having to accommodate themselves within the four rigid bars.  Looking back at her life, that was what she saw.

“Breakfast nine; luncheon one; tea five; dinner eight,” she said.

“Well,” said Hewet, “what d’you do in the morning?”

“I need to play the piano for hours and hours.”

“And after luncheon?”

“Then I went shopping with one of my aunts.  Or we went to see some one, or we took a message; or we did something that had to be done—­the taps might be leaking.  They visit the poor a good deal—­old char-women with bad legs, women who want tickets for hospitals.  Or I used to walk in the park by myself.  And after tea people sometimes called; or in summer we sat in the garden or played croquet; in winter I read aloud, while they worked; after dinner I played the piano and they wrote letters.  If father was at home we had friends of his to dinner, and about once a month we went up to the play.  Every now and then we dined out; sometimes I went to a dance in London, but that was difficult because of getting back.  The people we saw were old family friends, and relations, but we didn’t see many people.  There was the clergyman, Mr. Pepper, and the Hunts.  Father generally wanted to be quiet when he came home, because he works very hard at Hull.  Also my aunts aren’t very strong.  A house takes up a lot of time if you do it properly.  Our servants were always bad, and so Aunt Lucy used to do a good deal in the kitchen, and Aunt Clara, I think, spent most of the morning dusting the drawing-room and going through the linen and silver.  Then there were the dogs.  They had to be exercised, besides being washed and brushed.  Now Sandy’s dead, but Aunt Clara has a very old cockatoo that came from India.  Everything in our house,” she exclaimed, “comes from somewhere!  It’s full of old furniture, not really old, Victorian, things mother’s family had or father’s family had, which they didn’t like to get rid of, I suppose, though we’ve really no room for them.  It’s rather a nice house,” she continued, “except that it’s a little dingy—­dull I should say.”  She called up before her eyes a vision of the drawing-room at home; it was a large oblong room, with a square window opening on the garden.  Green plush chairs stood against the wall; there was a heavy carved book-case, with glass doors, and a general impression of faded sofa covers, large spaces of pale green, and baskets with pieces of wool-work dropping out of them.  Photographs from old Italian masterpieces hung on the walls, and views of Venetian bridges and Swedish waterfalls which members of the family had seen years ago.  There were also one or two portraits of fathers and grandmothers, and an engraving of John Stuart Mill, after the picture by Watts.  It was a room without definite character, being neither typically and openly hideous, nor strenuously artistic, nor really comfortable.  Rachel roused herself from the contemplation of this familiar picture.