To Cecilia the extinction of the race seemed threatened; in reality her species of the race alone was vanishing, which to her, of course, was very much the same disaster. With her eyes on Stephen's boots she thought: 'How shall I prevent what I've heard from coming to Bianca's ears? I know how she would take it! How shall I prevent Thyme's hearing? I'm sure I don't know what the effect would be on her! I must speak to Stephen. He's so fond of Hilary.' And, turning away from Stephen's boots, she mused: 'Of course it's nonsense. Hilary's much too--too nice, too fastidious, to be more than just interested; but he's so kind he might easily put himself in a false position. And--it's ugly nonsense! B. can be so disagreeable; even now she's not--on terms with him!' And suddenly the thought of Mr. Purcey leaped into her mind--Mr. Purcey, who, as Mrs. Tallents Smallpeace had declared, was not even conscious that there was a problem of the poor. To think of him seemed somehow at that moment comforting, like rolling oneself in a blanket against a draught. Passing into her room, she opened her wardrobe door. 'Bother the woman!' she thought. 'I do want that gentian dress got ready, but now I simply can't give it to her to do.' CHAPTER VIII THE SINGLE MIND OF MR. STONE Since in the flutter of her spirit caused by the words of Mrs. Hughs, Cecilia felt she must do something, she decided to change her dress. The furniture of the pretty room she shared with Stephen had not been hastily assembled. Conscious, even fifteen years ago, when they moved into this house, of the grave Philistinism of the upper classes, she and Stephen had ever kept their duty to aestheticism green; and, in the matter of their bed, had lain for two years on two little white affairs, comfortable, but purely temporary, that they might give themselves a chance. The chance had come at last--a bed in real keeping with the period they had settled on, and going for twelve pounds. They had not let it go, and now slept in it--not quite so comfortable, perhaps, but comfortable enough, and conscious of duty done. For fifteen years Cecilia had been furnishing her house; the process approached completion. The only things remaining on her mind--apart, that is, from Thyme's development and the condition of the people--were: item, a copper lantern that would allow some light to pass its framework; item, an old oak washstand not going back to Cromwell's time. And now this third anxiety had come!