"I think you might manage to be down in time for meals, Cecilia," was
Mrs. Rainham's chilly greeting.

Cecilia said nothing. She had long realized the uselessness of any
excuses. To be answered merely gave her stepmother occasion for further
fault-finding--you might, as Cecilia told Bob, have a flawless defence
for the sin of the moment, but in that case Mrs. Rainham merely changed
her ground, and waxed eloquent about the sin of yesterday, or of last
Friday week, for which there might happen to be no defence at all. It
was so difficult to avoid being a criminal in Mrs. Rainham's eyes that
Cecilia had almost given up the attempt. She attacked her greasy
mutton and sloppy cabbage in silence, unpleasantly conscious of her
stepmother's freezing glance.

Mrs. Rainham was a short, stout woman, with colourless, rather pinched
features, and a wealth of glorious red hair. Some one had once told her
that her profile was classic, and she still rejoiced in believing it,
was always photographed from a side view, and wore in the house loose
and flowing garments of strange tints, calculated to bring out the
colour of her glowing tresses. Cecilia, who worshipped colour with every
bit of her artist soul, adored her stepmother's hair as thoroughly as
she detested her dresses. Bob, who was blunt and inartistic, merely
detested her from every point of view. "Don't see what you find to rave
about in it," he said. "All the warmth of her disposition has simply
gone to her head."

There was certainly little warmth in Mrs. Rainham's heart, where her
stepdaughter was concerned. She disapproved very thoroughly of Cecilia
in every detail--of her pretty face and delicate colouring, of the fair
hair that rippled and curled and gleamed in a manner so light-hearted as