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Miss?" she inquired. "I told
yer I'd do it for yer."
"Mrs. Rainham is waiting for me to do it, Eliza. I'm sorry."
"Ow!" Eliza's expression and her tilted nose spoke volumes. "Suppose
she finks I wouldn't clean 'er old silver proper. Silver,
indeed!--'lectrer-plyte, an' common at that. Just you cut and run as soon
as she's out of the 'ouse, Miss; I know she's goin', 'cause 'er green and
yaller dress is a-airin' on 'er bed."
"It's not much good, Eliza. I ought to be in the Park now." Cecilia knew
she should not allow the girl to speak of her mistress so
contemptuously. But she was disheartened enough at the moment not to
care.
"Lor!" said Eliza. "A bloomin' shyme, I calls it!"
Cecilia found her stepmother happily engaged upon a succession of
wrong notes that made her wince. She dusted the room swiftly, aware
all the time of a watchful eye. Occasionally came a crisp comment:
"You didn't dust that window-sill." "Cecilia, that table has four
legs--did you only notice two?"--the effort to speak while playing
generally bringing the performer with vigour upon a wrong chord. The
so-called music became almost a physical torment to the over-strained
girl.
"If she would only stop--if she would only go away!" she found herself
murmuring, over and over. Even the thought of Bob waiting in Hyde
Park in the chill east wind became dim beside that horrible piano,
banging and tinkling in her ear. She dusted mechanically, picking up
one cheap ornament after another--leaving the collection upon the
piano until the last, in the hope that by the time she reached it the thirst
for music would have departed from the performer. But Mrs. Rainham's
tea appointment was not yet; she was thoroughly enjoying herself, the
charm of her own execution added to the knowledge that Cecilia was

miserable, and Bob waiting somewhere, with what patience he might.
She held on to the bitter end, while the girl dusted the piano's burden
with a set face. Then she finished a long and painful run, and shut the
piano with a bang.
"There--I've had quite a nice practice, and it isn't often the
drawing-room gets really decently dusted," she remarked. "Nothing
like the eye of the mistress; I think I must practise every day while you
are dusting, Cecilia. Oh, and, Cecilia, give the legs of the piano a good
rubbing. Dear me, I must go and dress."
Cecilia dragged herself upstairs a few minutes later. All the spring was
gone out of her; it really did not seem to matter much now whether she
met Bob or not; she was too tired to care. This was only a sample of
many days; so it had been for two years--so it would be for two more,
until she was twenty-one, and her own mistress. But it did not seem
possible that she could endure through another two years.
She reached her own room, and was about to shut the door, when the
harsh voice rasped upwards.
"Cecilia! Cecilia! Come here a minute."
The girl went down slowly. Mrs. Rainham was standing before her
mirror.
"Just come and hook my dress, Cecilia. This new dressmaker has a
knack of making everything hard to fasten. There--see that you start
with the right hook and eye."
At the moment, physical contact with her stepmother was almost the
last straw for the girl. She obeyed in silence, shrinking back as far as
she could from the stout, over-scented body and the powdered face
with the thin lips. Mrs. Rainham watched her with a little smile.
"Yes, that's all right," she said. "Now, my hat, Cecilia--it's in the
bandbox under the bed. I can't stoop in this dress, that's the worst of it.
And my gloves are in that box on the chest of drawers--the white pair.

Hurry, Cecilia, my appointment is for four o'clock."
"Mine was for three o'clock," said the girl in a low voice.
"Oh, well, you should manage your work better. I always tell you that.
Nothing like method in getting through every day. However, Bob is
only your brother--it would be more serious if it was a young man you
were meeting. Brothers don't matter much."
Cecilia flamed round upon her.
"Bob is more to me than anyone in the world," she cried. "And I would
rather keep any other man waiting."
"Really? But I shouldn't think it very likely that you'll ever have to
trouble about other young men, Cecilia; you're not the sort. Too thin
and scraggy." Mrs. Rainham surveyed her own generous proportions in
the glass, and gathered up her gloves with a pleased air. For the
moment she could not possibly believe that anyone could have referred
to her as "an over-ornamented pie." "Good-bye, Cecilia; don't be late
for