Cyril spoke the least now; but Sheila was conscious that he looked after her wants with a gentle consideration, and she felt grateful to him, and stole glances at him from time to time, wondering what made him so different from all the rest. All were kind and cousinly, and seemed interested in her, and liked to hear her talk; but there was a difference—a quiet sympathy about Cyril’s manner which was totally distinct from the friendliness of the rest. He reminded her of the world in which she had been accustomed to move. Everything else was different, the very atmosphere seemed changed, though she could not have accounted for or defined the change. Ray took her upstairs at last. “I am glad you are to stay a day or two here. This is our spare room. Oscar has the little one. We could not take you in for good, or it would have left us no spare room at all. Besides, they want you up at Cossart Place. I wonder how you and Effie will get on. This cold spell has made her breathing bad; but she is beginning to look forward to your coming.” “Didn’t she like it at first?” asked Sheila, reading something between the lines. “Well, you know, Effie is a bit crossgrained. If she thinks of a thing herself, she’s as keen after it as possible; but if somebody else suggests it, she takes a dislike to it directly. It’s partly because she’s out of health, and partly because she’s been so spoiled. I get along with her very well, though she’s not always in the sweetest of tempers. But then perhaps none of us are!” And Ray laughed, showing her white even teeth. Ray stayed and helped Sheila to unpack the one box which had come to River Street. Her heavy baggage had been sent straight to Cossart Place. “We don’t have a maid here; but Effie has one. I daresay she’ll share with you. You’ve been used to one, I expect. You have been county people, I know. We are only _bourgeoise_, of course. I expect our ways will seem funny to you!” It did seem rather strange to Sheila to come down and find the father and elder son in morning dress. Cyril and the girls dressed for dinner; but had never got the rest of their men-folk to do so. Indeed, it was but within the last few years that they had been able to get the father to consent to a seven o’clock dinner. It had been the fashion in Isingford for business men to leave their works about five, and dine at six or earlier, and have a supper later. The girls had had something of a fight to get afternoon tea and seven o’clock dinner, and with that they had to be content without further concessions to more fashionable habits.