They lay about on pieces of stamped
notepaper, beginning "Dear Cecilia," or "Mrs. Tallents Smallpeace
requests," or on bits of pasteboard headed by the names of theatres,
galleries, or concert-halls; or, again, on paper of not quite so good a
quality, commencing, "Dear Friend," and ending with a single well-known
name like "Wessex," so that no suspicion should attach to the appeal
contained between the two. She had before her also sheets of her own
writing-paper, headed "76, The Old Square, Kensington," and two little
books. One of these was bound in marbleised paper, and on it written:
"Please keep this book in safety"; across the other, cased in the
skin of some small animal deceased, was inscribed the solitary word
"Engagements."
Cecilia had on a Persian-green silk blouse with sleeves that would have
hidden her slim hands, but for silver buttons made in the likeness of
little roses at her wrists; on her brow was a faint frown, as though
she were wondering what her thoughts were all about. She sat there every
morning catching those thoughts, and placing them in one or other of
her little books. Only by thus working hard could she keep herself, her
husband, and daughter, in due touch with all the different movements
going on. And that the touch might be as due as possible, she had a
little headache nearly every day.
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