“Did I say that?” he said. “I had no wish to be dogmatic.”
“Not at all, sir, not at all,” murmured Stephen.
Thyme, leaning over to her mother, whispered “Oh, Mother, don't let grandfather be queer; I can't bear it to-night!”
Cecilia, at her wits' end, said hurriedly:
“Dad, will you tell us what sort of character you think that little girl who comes to you has?”
Mr. Stone paused in the act of drinking water; his attention had evidently been riveted; he did not, however, speak. And Cecilia, seeing that the butler, out of the perversity which she found so conspicuous in her servants, was about to hand him beef, made a desperate movement with her lips. “No, Charles, not there, not there!”
The butler, tightening his lips, passed on. Mr. Stone spoke:
“I had not considered that. She is rather of a Celtic than an Anglo-Saxon type; the cheekbones are prominent; the jaw is not massive; the head is broad—if I can remember I will measure it; the eyes are of a peculiar blue, resembling chicory flowers; the mouth—-,” Mr. Stone paused.
Cecilia thought: 'What a lucky find! Now perhaps he will go on all right!'
“I do not know,” Mr. Stone resumed, speaking in a far-off voice, “whether she would be virtuous.”