Remembering suddenly, however, that she was sitting there to clear off Mr. Balladyce, because it was so necessary to keep up with what he wrote, Cecilia dropped her gaze to the page before her; and instantly, by uncomfortable chance, not the choice pastures of Mr. Balladyce appeared, where women might browse at leisure, but a vision of the little model.  She had not thought of her for quite an hour; she had tired herself out with thinking-not, indeed, of her, but of all that hinged on her, ever since Stephen had spoken of his talk with Hilary.  Things Hilary had said seemed to Cecilia’s delicate and rather timid soul so ominous, so unlike himself.  Was there really going to be complete disruption between him and Bianca—­worse, an ugly scandal?  She, who knew her sister better, perhaps, than anyone, remembered from schoolroom days Bianca’s moody violence when anything had occurred to wound her—­remembered, too, the long fits of brooding that followed.  This affair, which she had tried to persuade herself was exaggerated, loomed up larger than ever.  It was not an isolated squib; it was a lighted match held to a train of gunpowder.  This girl of the people, coming from who knew where, destined for who knew what—­this young, not very beautiful, not even clever child, with nothing but a sort of queer haunting naivete’ to give her charm—­might even be a finger used by Fate!  Cecilia sat very still before that sudden vision of the girl.  There was no staid mare to guard that foal with the dark devotion of her eye.  There was no wise whinnying to answer back those tiny whinnies; no long look round to watch the little creature nodding to sleep on its thin trembling legs in the hot sunlight; no ears to prick up and hoofs to stamp at the approach of other living things.  These thoughts passed through Cecilia’s mind and were gone, being too far and pale to stay.  Turning the page which she had not been reading, she heaved a sigh.  Thyme sighed also.

“These worms are fearfully interesting,” she said.  “Is anybody coming in this afternoon?”

“Mrs. Tallents Smallpeace was going to bring a young man in, a Signor Pozzi-Egregio Pozzi, or some such name.  She says he is the coming pianist.”  Cecilia’s face was spiced with faint amusement.  Some strain of her breeding (the Carfax strain, no doubt) still heard such names and greeted such proclivities with an inclination to derision.

Thyme snatched up her book.  “Well,” she said, “I shall be in the attic.  If anyone interesting comes you might send up to me.”

She stood, luxuriously stretching, and turning slowly round in a streak of sunlight so as to bathe her body in it.  Then, with a long soft yawn, she flung up her chin till the sun streamed on her face.  Her eyelashes rested on cheeks already faintly browned; her lips were parted; little shivers of delight ran down her; her chestnut hair glowed, burnished by the kisses of the sun.

‘Ah!’ Cecilia thought, ’if that other girl were like this, now, I could understand well enough!’