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Updated: May 1, 2025
Thyme's cheeks were crimson. At the end of the little street he stopped before a shop. "Come on," he said, "you'll see the sort of place where they buy their grub." In the doorway were standing a thin brown spaniel, a small fair woman with a high, bald forehead, from which the hair was gleaned into curlpapers, and a little girl with some affection of the skin.
But suddenly a flash of clear, hard cynicism amounting to inspiration utterly disturbed him: The old chap, indeed, was so wrapped up in himself and his precious book as to be quite unconscious that anyone else was alive. Could one be everybody's brother if one were blind to their existence? But this freak of Thyme's was an actual try to be everybody's sister.
I'm as bad as mother!" But to Martin there was only the scent of her hair. "No," murmured Thyme's voice, "I'm only fit for miserable Art.... I'm only fit for nothing!" They were so close together on the dark beech mat that their bodies touched, and a longing to clasp her in his arms came over him. "I'm a selfish beast!" moaned the smothered voice.
Leaning over a plate, with a desperation quite unlike himself, he took an enormous bite. Again and again he bit the slice, then almost threw it from him, and dipped his fingers in a bowl. 'Thank God! he thought, 'that's over! What an escape! Whether he meant Hilary's escape or Thyme's was doubtful, but there came on him a longing to rush up to his little daughter's room, and hug her.
The landlady quickly turned the handles of the doors, showing that they would not open. "I keep the key," she said. "There's a bolt on both sides." Reassured, Cecilia walked round the room as far as this was possible, for it was practically all furniture. There was the same little wrinkle across her nose as across Thyme's nose when she spoke of Hound Street. Suddenly she caught sight of Hilary.
She glanced at him with mild surprise. "What's this, Cis," he said, "about a baby dead? Thyme's quite upset about it; and your dad's in the drawing-room!" With the quick instinct that was woven into all her gentle treading, Cecilia's thoughts flew she could not have told why first to the little model, then to Mrs. Hughs. "Dead?" she said. "Oh, poor woman!" "What woman?" Stephen asked.
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!
Outside Thyme's door Cecilia paused, and, hearing no sound, tapped gently. Her knock not being answered, she slipped in. On the bed of that white room, with her face pressed into the pillow, her little daughter lay. Cecilia stood aghast. Thyme's whole body was quivering with suppressed sobs. "My darling!" said Cecilia, "what is it?" Thyme's answer was inarticulate.
The women stared at her, and in those faces, according to their different temperaments, could be seen first the same vague, hard interest that had been Thyme's when she first looked at them, then the same secret hostility and criticism, as though they too felt that by this young girl's untouched modesty, by her gushed cheeks and unsoiled clothes, their sex had given them away.
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