"Very much at home," Stephen interposed, conscious of Jill's swift glance of disgust--"the window, you observe, bears silent witness to it." He pointed a slender finger at the broken pane. Then went on smoothly: "You'll stay to lunch, of course." But Peter ignored him, his eyes on his hostess. "Of course he will," Mrs. Uniacke echoed the words, "and there goes the gong." She pushed her papers together with a regretful glance at the unfinished work, as Roddy, his face shining with its hurried ablutions, slipped in noiselessly and joined the little group. "It's very kind of you," McTaggart replied, "and I'd simply love to lunch with you and the kids." As they passed through the hall Jill heard her friend say politely to Somerville: "You lunching too?" CHAPTER III Cydonia sat in the window seat, her face full of dreams, her white hands folded above her needlework. The smooth and slender fingers with their faintly pink nails, the small head so proudly set on the long rounded neck, her air of self-possession, of calm dignity suggested an ancient lineage that in truth was not hers. For Cydonia was a miracle. In a freakish spring-tide mood Dame Nature had evolved a jest at the expense of caste. From the union of a withered, elderly governess with a rich cheesemonger past the prime of life she had sprung on an astounded world this exquisite young creature with all the outward signs of patrician birth. Exquisite she was: exquisite and inert. From the slim, arched feet beneath her satin gown to the pale golden hair parted above her brow and gathered in a great knot behind her little ears, flawless she showed against the window's light, like a picture by a master's hand in delicate silver point. Now as she sat there pensive, the full-lidded eyes fixed unseeing upon a bowl of early lilies, one wondered what unutterable, deep, maiden thoughts held her thus absorbed, with slightly parted lips, motionless save for the rise and fall of the low girlish breast. And once she gave a little sigh and into her soft brown eyes under the long gold lashes stole a light of warm content. Her mother glanced up from the book upon her knee as the faint sound broke through the silence of the room; a tall, gaunt woman with an energetic face under the plaited coronet of iron-gray hair. "What are you dreaming about, Cydonia?" The girl in the window slowly turned her head. "I was thinking, Madre dear, if the Bishop is coming to lunch that Mrs. Nix will send us up a pine-apple cream. She always remembers that it's his favourite dish." She gave a little laugh, musical and low. "I like pine-apple cream." The curved lips closed. A slight frown showed between Mrs. Cadell's eyes behind the pince-nez that nipped her high-arched nose. "You don't seem to be getting on very quickly with your work." Cydonia, obediently, re-threaded her needle and proceeded to make minute stitches in the narrow strip of lace.