it; but when next week came, there it was, with its complexion that reminded her so uncomfortably of cabmen.  And she would partake of it with unexpected heartiness.  Something very old and deep, some horrible whole-hearted appetite, derived, no doubt, from Mr. Justice Carfax, rose at that hour precisely every week to master her.  Having given Thyme the second helping which she invariably took, Cecilia, who detested carving, would look over the fearful joint at a piece of glass procured by her in Venice, and at the daffodils standing upright in it, apparently without support.  Had it not been for this joint of beef, which had made itself smelt all the morning, and would make itself felt all the afternoon, it need never have come into her mind at all that it was Sunday—­and she would cut herself another slice.

To have told Cecilia that there was still a strain of the Puritan in her would have been to occasion her some uneasiness, and provoked a strenuous denial; yet her way of observing Sunday furnished indubitable evidence of this singular fact.  She did more that day than any other.  For, in the morning she invariably “cleared off” her correspondence; at lunch she carved the beef; after lunch she cleared off the novel or book on social questions she was reading; went to a concert, clearing off a call on the way back; and on first Sundays—­a great bore—­stayed at home to clear off the friends who came to visit her.  In the evening she went to some play or other, produced by Societies for the benefit of persons compelled, like her, to keep a Sunday with which they felt no sympathy.

On this particular “first Sunday,” having made the circuit of her drawing-room, which extended the whole breadth of her house, and through long, low windows cut into leaded panes, looked out both back and front, she took up Mr. Balladyce’s latest book.  She sat, with her paper-knife pressed against the tiny hollow in her flushed cheek, and pretty little bits of lace and real old jewellery nestling close to her.  And while she turned the pages of Mr. Balladyce’s book Thyme sat opposite in a bright blue frock, and turned the pages of Darwin’s work on earthworms.

Regarding her “little daughter,” who was so much more solid than herself, Cecilia’s face wore a very sweet, faintly surprised expression.

‘My kitten is a bonny thing,’ it seemed to say.  ’It is queer that I should have a thing so large.’

Outside in the Square Gardens a shower, the sunlight, and blossoms, were entangled.  It was the time of year when all the world had kittens; young things were everywhere—­soft, sweet, uncouth.  Cecilia felt this in her heart.  It brought depth into her bright, quick eyes.  What a secret satisfaction it was that she had once so far committed herself as to have borne a child!  What a queer vague feeling she sometimes experienced in the Spring—­almost amounting to a desire to bear another!  So one may mark the warm eye of a staid mare, following with her gaze the first strayings of her foal.  ‘I must get used to it,’ she seems to say.  ’I certainly do miss the little creature, though I used to threaten her with my hoofs, to show I couldn’t be bullied by anything of that age.  And there she goes!  Ah, well!’