take from first to last.
It's all very well up to a certain point, but after that it becomes
destructive of all comfort. It doesn't do to let these people come into
personal contact with you. There are the proper channels for that sort
of thing."

Cecilia's eyes were lowered, as though she did not dare to let him see
her thoughts.

"It seems so horrid," she said; "and father is not like other people."

"He is not," said Stephen dryly; "we had a pretty good instance of that
this evening. But Hilary and your sister are. There's something most
distasteful to me, too, about Thyme's going about slumming. You see
what she's been let in for this afternoon. The notion of that baby being
killed through the man's treatment of his wife, and that, no doubt,
arising from the girl's leaving them, is most repulsive!"

To these words Cecilia answered with a sound almost like a gasp. "I
hadn't thought of that. Then we're responsible; it was we who advised
Hilary to make her change her lodging."

Stephen stared; he regretted sincerely that his legal habit of mind had
made him put the case so clearly.

"I can't imagine," he said, almost violently, "what possesses everybody!
We--responsible! Good gracious! Because we gave Hilary some sound
advice! What next?"

Cecilia turned to the empty hearth.

"Thyme has been telling me about that poor little thing. It seems so
dreadful, and I can't get rid of the feeling that we're--we're all mixed
up with it!"

"Mixed up with what?"

"I don't know; it's just a feeling like--like being haunted."

Stephen took her quietly by the arm.

"My dear old girl," he said, "I'd no idea that you were run down like
this. To-morrow's Thursday, and I can get away at three. We'll motor
down to Richmond, and have a round or two!"

Cecilia quivered; for a moment it seemed that she was about to burst out
crying. Stephen stroked her shoulder steadily. Cecilia must have felt
his dread; she struggled loyally with her emotion.

"That will be very jolly," she said at last.

Stephen drew a deep breath.

"And don't you worry, dear," he said, "about your dad; he'll have
forgotten the whole thing in a day or two; he's far too wrapped up in
his book. Now trot along to bed; I'll be up directly."

Before going out Cecilia looked back at him. How wonderful was that
look, which Stephen did not--perhaps intentionally--see. Mocking, almost
hating, and yet thanking him for having refused to let her be emotional
and