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bamboo furniture and much
drapery of a would-be artistic nature. It was stuffy and airless. Cecilia
wrinkled her pretty nose as she entered. Mrs. Rainham held pronounced
views on the subject of what she termed the "fresh-air fad," and
declined to let London air--a smoky commodity at best--attack her
cherished carpets; with the result that Cecilia breathed freely only in
her little attic, which had no carpet at all.
The lady of the house rustled in, in her flowing robe, as Cecilia put the

last vase into position on the piano--finding room for it with difficulty
amid a collection of photograph frames and china ornaments. She
carried some music, and cast a critical eye round the room.
"This place looks as if it had not been properly dusted for a week," she
remarked. "See to it before you go, Cecilia." She opened the piano.
"Just come and try the accompaniment to this song--it's rather difficult,
and I want to sing it to-night."
Cecilia sat down before the piano, with woe in her heart. Her
stepmother's delusion that she could sing was one of the minor trials of
her life. She had been thoroughly trained in Paris, under a master who
had prophesied great things for her; now her hours at the Rainhams'
tinkly piano, playing dreary accompaniments to sentimental songs with
Mrs. Rainham's weak soprano wobbling and flattening on the high
notes, were hours of real distress, from which she would escape feeling
her teeth on edge. Her stepmother, however, had thoroughly enjoyed
herself since the discovery that no accompaniment presented any
difficulty to Cecilia. It saved her a world of trouble in practising;
moreover, when standing, it was far easier to let herself go in the
affecting passages, which always suffered from scantiness of breath
when she was sitting down. Therefore she would stand beside Cecilia,
pouring forth song after song, with her head slightly on one side, and
one hand resting lightly on the piano--an attitude which, after
experiment with a mirror, she had decided upon as especially
becoming.
The song of the moment did make some demands upon her attention. It
had a disconcerting way of changing from sharps to flats; trouble being
caused by the singer failing to change also. Cecilia took her through it
patiently, going over and over again the tricky passages, and devoutly
wishing that Providence in supplying her stepmother with boundless
energy, a tireless voice and an enormous stock of songs, had also
equipped her with an ear for music. At length the lady desisted from
her efforts.
"That's quite all right," she said, with satisfaction. "I'll sing it to-night.
The Simons will be here, and they do like to hear what's new. Go on

with your dusting; I'll just run through a few pieces, and you can tell
me if I go wrong."
Cecilia hesitated, glancing at the clock.
"It is getting very late," she said. "Eliza told me she could dust the
room."
"Eliza!" said Mrs. Rainham. "Why, it's her silver day; she had no
business to tell you anything of the sort--and neither had you, to ask her
to do it. Goodness knows it's hard enough to make the lazy thing do her
own work. Just get your duster, and make sure as you come down that
the children are properly dressed for the dancing class." She broke into
a waltz.
Cecilia ran. Sounds of woe greeted her as she neared Avice's room, and
she entered, to find that damsel plunged in despair over a missing
button.
"It was on all right last time I wore the beastly dress," wailed she. "If
you'd look after my clothes like Mater said you had to, I wouldn't be
late. Whatever am I to do? I can't make the old dress shut with a safety
pin."
"No, you certainly can't," said her half-sister. "Never mind; there are
spare buttons for that frock, and I can sew one on." She accomplished
the task with difficulty, since Avice appeared quite unable to stand still.
"Now, are you ready, Avice? Shoes, hat, gloves--where are your gloves?
How do you ever manage to find anything in that drawer?" She rooted
swiftly in a wild chaos, and finally unearthed the gloves. "Yes, you'll
do. Now, where's Wilfred?" Search revealed Wilfred, who hated
dancing, reading a "penny dreadful" in his room-- ready to start, save
for the trifling detail of having neglected to wash an extremely dirty
face. Cecilia managed to make him repair the omission, after a struggle,
and saw them off with a thankful heart--which sank anew as she heard
a neighbouring clock strike three. Three--and already she should be
meeting Bob in Hyde Park. She fled for a duster, and hurried to the

drawing-room. Eliza encountered her on the way.
"Now, wotcher goin' to do wiv that duster,