"I had not considered that. She is rather of a Celtic than an
Anglo-Saxon type; the cheekbones are prominent; the jaw is not massive;
the head is broad--if I can remember I will measure it; the eyes are of
a peculiar blue, resembling chicory flowers; the mouth---," Mr. Stone
paused.

Cecilia thought: 'What a lucky find! Now perhaps he will go on all
right!'

"I do not know," Mr. Stone resumed, speaking in a far-off voice,
"whether she would be virtuous."

Cecilia heard Stephen drinking sherry; Thyme, too, was drinking
something; she herself drank nothing, but, pink and quiet, for she was a
well-bred woman, said:

"You have no new potatoes, dear. Charles, give Mr. Stone some new
potatoes."

By the almost vindictive expression on Stephen's face she saw, however,
that her failure had decided him to resume command of the situation.
"Talking of brotherhood, sir," he said dryly, "would you go so far as to
say that a new potato is the brother of a bean?"

Mr. Stone, on whose plate these two vegetables reposed, looked almost
painfully confused.

"I do not perceive," he stammered, "any difference between them."