the lid. Daffodils were always a joy; this afternoon they were doubly
welcome, because easy to arrange. She sorted them into long-necked vases
swiftly, carrying each vase, when filled, to the drawing-room--a painful
apartment, crowded with knick-knacks until it resembled a bazaar stall,
with knobby and unsteady bamboo furniture and much drapery of a would-be
artistic nature. It was stuffy and airless. Cecilia wrinkled her pretty
nose as she entered. Mrs. Rainham held pronounced views on the subject
of what she termed the "fresh-air fad," and declined to let London
air--a smoky commodity at best--attack her cherished carpets; with the
result that Cecilia breathed freely only in her little attic, which had
no carpet at all.

The lady of the house rustled in, in her flowing robe, as Cecilia put
the last vase into position on the piano--finding room for it with
difficulty amid a collection of photograph frames and china ornaments.
She carried some music, and cast a critical eye round the room.

"This place looks as if it had not been properly dusted for a week,"
she remarked. "See to it before you go, Cecilia." She opened the
piano. "Just come and try the accompaniment to this song--it's rather
difficult, and I want to sing it to-night."

Cecilia sat down before the piano, with woe in her heart. Her
stepmother's delusion that she could sing was one of the minor trials of
her life. She had been thoroughly trained in Paris, under a master who
had prophesied great things for her; now her hours at the Rainhams'
tinkly piano, playing dreary accompaniments to sentimental songs with
Mrs. Rainham's weak soprano wobbling and flattening on the high notes,
were hours of real distress, from which she would escape feeling her
teeth on edge. Her stepmother, however, had thoroughly enjoyed herself