Cecilia’s heart ached with a little ache for all the times she had thought:  ‘If father were only not quite so—–­’; for all the times she had shunned asking him to come to them, because he was so—–­; for all the silences she and Stephen had maintained after he had spoken; for all the little smiles she had smiled.  She longed to go and kiss his brow, and make him feel that she was aching.  But she did not dare; he seemed so far away; it would be ridiculous.

Coming down the room, and putting her slim foot on the fender with a noise, so that if possible he might both see and hear her, she turned her anxious face towards him, and said:  “Father!”

Mr. Stone looked up, and seeing somebody who seemed to be his elder daughter, answered “Yes, my dear?”

“Are you sure you’re feeling quite the thing?  Thyme said she thought seeing that poor baby had upset you.”

Mr. Stone felt his body with his hand.

“I am not conscious of any pain,” he said.

“Then you’ll stay to dinner, dear, won’t you?”

Mr. Stone’s brow contracted as though he were trying to recall his past.

“I have had no tea,” he said.  Then, with a sudden, anxious look at his daughter:  “The little girl has not come to me.  I miss her.  Where is she?”

The ache within Cecilia became more poignant.

“It is now two days,” said Mr. Stone, “and she has left her room in that house—­in that street.”

Cecilia, at her wits’ end, answered:  “Do you really miss her, Father?”

“Yes,” said Mr. Stone.  “She is like—­” His eyes wandered round the room as though seeking something which would help him to express himself.  They fixed themselves on the far wall.  Cecilia, following their gaze, saw a little solitary patch of sunlight dancing and trembling there.  It had escaped the screen of trees and houses, and, creeping through some chink, had quivered in.  “She is like that,” said Mr. Stone, pointing with his finger.  “It is gone!” His finger dropped; he uttered a deep sigh.

‘How dreadful this is!’ Cecilia thought.  ’I never expected him to feel it, and yet I can do nothing!’ Hastily she asked:  “Would it do if you had Thyme to copy for you?  I’m sure she’d love to come.”

“She is my grand-daughter,” Mr. Stone said simply.  “It would not be the same.”

Cecilia could think of nothing now to say but:  “Would you like to wash your hands, dear?”

“Yes,” said Mr. Stone.

“Then will you go up to Stephen’s dressing-room for hot water, or will you wash them in the lavatory?”

“In the lavatory,” said Mr. Stone.  “I shall be freer there.”

When he had gone Cecilia thought:  ’Oh dear, how shall I get through the evening?  Poor darling, he is so single-minded!’

At the sounding of the dinner-gong they all assembled—­Thyme from her bedroom with cheeks and eyes still pink, Stephen with veiled inquiry in his glance, Mr. Stone from freedom in the lavatory—­and sat down, screened, but so very little, from each other by sprays of white lilac.  Looking round her table, Cecilia felt rather like one watching a dew-belled cobweb, most delicate of all things in the world, menaced by the tongue of a browsing cow.