This
last year or so, now that Thyme was a grown girl, she had felt at once
a loss of purpose and a gain of liberty. She hardly knew whether to be
glad or sorry. It freed her for the tasting of more things, more people,
and more Stephen; but it left a little void in her heart, a little
soreness round it. What would Thyme think if she heard this story about
her uncle? The thought started a whole train of doubts that had of late
beset her. Was her little daughter going to turn out like herself? If
not, why not? Stephen joked about his daughter's skirts, her hockey, her
friendship with young men. He joked about the way Thyme refused to let
him joke about her art or about her interest in "the people." His joking
was a source of irritation to Cecilia. For, by woman's instinct rather
than by any reasoning process, she was conscious of a disconcerting
change. Amongst the people she knew, young men were not now attracted by
girls as they had been in her young days. There was a kind of cool and
friendly matter-of-factness in the way they treated them, a sort of
almost scientific playfulness. And Cecilia felt uneasy as to how far
this was to go. She seemed left behind. If young people were really
becoming serious, if youths no longer cared about the colour of Thyme's
eyes, or dress, or hair, what would there be left to care for--that
is, up to the point of definite relationship? Not that she wanted her
daughter to be married.
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