It was past nine when she turned into the Old Square, and rang the bell
of her sister's house with the sheer physical desire to rest--somewhere
that was not her home.

At one end of the long, low drawing-room Stephen, in evening dress, was
reading aloud from a review. Cecilia was looking dubiously at his sock,
where she seemed to see a tiny speck of white that might be Stephen. In
the window at the far end Thyme and Martin were exchanging speeches at
short intervals; they made no move at Bianca's entrance; and their faces
said: "We have no use for that handshaking nonsense!"

Receiving Cecilia's little, warm, doubting kiss and Stephen's polite,
dry handshake, Bianca motioned to him not to stop reading. He resumed.
Cecilia, too, resumed her scrutiny of Stephen's sock.

'Oh dear!' she thought. 'I know B.'s come here because she's unhappy.
Poor thing! Poor Hilary! It's that wretched business again, I suppose.'

Skilled in every tone of Stephen's voice, she knew that Bianca's entry
had provoked the same train of thought in him; to her he seemed reading
out these words: 'I disapprove--I disapprove. She's Cis's sister. But if
it wasn't for old Hilary I wouldn't have the subject in the house!'

Bianca, whose subtlety recorded every shade of feeling, could see that
she was not welcome. Leaning back with veil raised, she seemed listening
to Stephen's reading, but in fact she was quivering at the sight of
those two couples.

Couples, couples--for all but her! What crime had she committed? Why was