Stephen Dallison placed a cigarette between his moustacheless lips, always rather screwed up, and ready to nip with a smile anything that might make him feel ridiculous.

“Phew!” he said.  “Our friend Purcey becomes a little tedious.  He seems to take the whole of Philistia about with him.”

“He’s a very decent fellow,” murmured Hilary.

“A bit heavy, surely!” Stephen Dallison’s face, though also long and narrow, was not much like his brother’s.  His eyes, though not unkind, were far more scrutinising, inquisitive, and practical; his hair darker, smoother.

Letting a puff of smoke escape, he added: 

“Now, that’s the sort of man to give you a good sound opinion.  You should have asked him, Cis.”

Cecilia answered with a frown: 

“Don’t chaff, Stephen; I’m perfectly serious about Mrs. Hughs.”

“Well, I don’t see what I can do for the good woman, my dear.  One can’t interfere in these domestic matters.”

“But it seems dreadful that we who employ her should be able to do nothing for her.  Don’t you think so, B.?”

“I suppose we could do something for her if we wanted to badly enough.”

Bianca’s voice, which had the self-distrustful ring of modern music, suited her personality.

A glance passed between Stephen and his wife.

“That’s B. all over!” it seemed to say....

“Hound Street, where they live, is a horrid place.”

It was Thyme who spoke, and everybody looked round at her.

“How do you know that?” asked Cecilia.

“I went to see.”

“With whom?”

“Martin.”

The lips of the young man whose name she mentioned curled sarcastically.

Hilary asked gently: 

“Well, my dear, what did you see?”

“Most of the doors are open—–­”

Bianca murmured:  “That doesn’t tell us much.”

“On the contrary,” said Martin suddenly, in a deep bass voice, “it tells you everything.  Go on.”

“The Hughs live on the top floor at No. 1.  It’s the best house in the street.  On the ground-floor are some people called Budgen; he’s a labourer, and she’s lame.  They’ve got one son.  The Hughs have let off the first-floor front-room to an old man named Creed—–­”

“Yes, I know,” Cecilia muttered.

“He makes about one and tenpence a day by selling papers.  The back-room on that floor they let, of course, to your little model, Aunt B.”

“She is not my model now.”

There was a silence such as falls when no one knows how far the matter mentioned is safe to, touch on.  Thyme proceeded with her report.

“Her room’s much the best in the house; it’s airy, and it looks out over someone’s garden.  I suppose she stays there because it’s so cheap.  The Hughs’ rooms are—–­” She stopped, wrinkling her straight nose.

“So that’s the household,” said Hilary.  “Two married couples, one young man, one young girl”—­his eyes travelled from one to another of the two married couples, the young man, and the young girl, collected in this room—­“and one old man,” he added softly.