with them more than I do; but after that it becomes destructive of all
comfort, and that does no good to anyone."

The sound sense of those words had made her feel queer when they were
spoken; they were even more sensible than she had thought. Did her
little daughter, so young and pretty, seriously mean to plunge into the
rescue work of dismal slums, to cut herself adrift from sweet sounds and
scents and colours, from music and art, from dancing, flowers, and all
that made life beautiful? The secret forces of fastidiousness, an inborn
dread of the fanatical, and all her real ignorance of what such a life
was like, rose in Cecilia with a force which made her feel quite sick.
Better that she herself should do this thing than that her own child
should be deprived of air and light and all the just environment of
her youth and beauty. 'She must come back--she must listen to me!' she
thought. 'We will begin together; we will start a nice little creche of
our own, or--perhaps Mrs. Tallents Smallpeace could find us some regular
work on one of her committees.'

Then suddenly she conceived a thought which made her blood run
positively cold. What if it were a matter of heredity? What if Thyme had
inherited her grandfather's single-mindedness? Martin was giving proof
of it. Things, she knew, often skipped a generation and then set in
again. Surely, surely, it could not have done that! With longing, yet
with dread, she waited for the sound of Stephen's latchkey. It came at
its appointed time.

Even in her agitation Cecilia did not forget to spare him, all she
could. She began by giving him a kiss, and then said casually: "Thyme
has got a whim into her head."