She's quite charming!"
Cecilia's cheeks went a very pretty pink.
"Oh, that's my little daughter."
"Really! Have you a daughter as big as that? Why, she must be
seventeen!"
"Nearly eighteen!"
"What is her name?"
"Thyme," said Cecilia, with a little smile. She felt that Mrs. Tallents
Smallpeace was about to say: 'How charming!'
Mrs. Tallents Smallpeace saw her smile and paused. "Who is the young man
with her?"
"My nephew, Martin Stone."
"The son of your brother who was killed with his wife in that dreadful
Alpine accident? He looks a very decided sort of young man. He's got
that new look. What is he?"
"He's very nearly a doctor. I never know whether he's quite finished or
not."
"I thought perhaps he might have something to do with Art."
"Oh no, he despises Art."
"And does your daughter despise it, too?"
"No; she's studying it."
"Oh, really! How interesting! I do think the rising generation amusing,
don't you? They're so independent."
Cecilia looked uneasily at the rising generation. They were standing
side by side before the picture, curiously observant and detached,
exchanging short remarks and glances. They seemed to watch all these
circling, chatting, bending, smiling people with a sort of youthful,
matter-of-fact, half-hostile curiosity. The young man had a pale face,
clean-shaven, with a strong jaw, a long, straight nose, a rather bumpy
forehead which did not recede, and clear grey eyes.
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