Fraternity .............................................................................................................................................................1

John Galsworthy......................................................................................................................................1

In the afternoon of the last day of April, 190, a billowy sea of little broken clouds crowned the thin air

above High Street, Kensington. This soft tumult of vapours, covering nearly all the firmament, was in

onslaught round a patch of blue sky, shaped somewhat like a star, which still gleameda single gentian

flower amongst innumerable grass. Each of these small clouds seemed fitted with a pair of unseen wings,

and, as insects flight on their too constant journeys, they were setting forth all ways round this starry blossom

which burned so clear with the colour of its far fixity. On one side they were massed in fleecy congeries, so

crowding each other that no edge or outline was preserved; on the other, higher, stronger, emergent from their

fellowclouds, they seemed leading the attack on that surviving gleam of the ineffable. Infinite was the

variety of those million separate vapours, infinite the unchanging unity of that fixed blue star.

Down in the street beneath this eternal warring of the various soft winged clouds on the unmisted ether,

men, women, children, and their familiarshorses, dogs, and catswere pursuing their occupations with

the sweet zest of the Spring. They streamed along, and the noise of their frequenting rose in an unbroken roar:

The crowd was perhaps thickest outside the premises of Messrs. Rose and Thorn. Every kind of being, from

the highest to the lowest, passed in front of the hundred doors of this establishment; and before the costume

window a rather tall, slight, graceful woman stood thinking: "It really is gentian blue! But I don't know

Her eyes, which were greenishgrey, and often ironical lest they should reveal her soul, seemed probing a

"And suppose Stephen doesn't like me in it!" This doubt set her gloved fingers pleating the bosom of her

frock. Into that little pleat she folded the essence of herself, the wish to have and the fear of having, the wish

to be and the fear of being, and her veil, falling from the edge of her hat, three inches from her face, shrouded

with its tissue her halfdecided little features, her rather too high cheekbones, her cheeks which were

The old man, with a long face, eyes rimmed like a parrot's, and discoloured nose, who, so long as he did not

sit down, was permitted to frequent the pavement just there and sell the 'Westminster Gazette', marked her,

It was his business to know all the passersby, and his pleasure too; his mind was thus distracted from the

condition of his feet. He knew this particular lady with the delicate face, and found her puzzling; she

sometimes bought the paper which Fate condemned him, against his politics, to sell. The Tory journals were

undoubtedly those which her class of person ought to purchase. He knew a lady when he saw one. In fact,

before Life threw him into the streets, by giving him a disease in curing which his savings had disappeared,

he had been a butler, and for the gentry had a respect as incurable as was his distrust of "all that class of

people" who bought their things at "these 'ere large establishments," and attended "these 'ere subscription

dances at the Town 'All over there." He watched her with special interest, not, indeed, attempting to attract

attention, though conscious in every fibre that he had only sold five copies of his early issues. And he was

sorry and surprised when she passed from his sight through one of the hundred doors.

The thought which spurred her into Messrs. Rose and Thorn's was this: "I am thirtyeight; I have a daughter

of seventeen. I cannot afford to lose my husband's admiration. The time is on me when I really must make

Before a long mirror, in whose bright pool there yearly bathed hundreds of women's bodies, divested of skirts

and bodices, whose unruffled surface reflected daily a dozen women's souls divested of everything, her eyes

became as bright as steel; but having ascertained the need of taking two inches off the chest of the gentian

frock, one off its waist, three off its hips, and of adding one to its skirt, they clouded again with doubt, as

though prepared to fly from the decision she had come to. Resuming her bodice, she asked:

Going downstairs she thought: "That poor girl looked very tired; it's a shame they give them such long

"That's the poor old creature," thought Cecilia Dallison, "whose nose is so unpleasant. I don't really think

I" and she felt for a penny in her little bag. Standing beside the "poor old creature" was a woman clothed in

worn but neat black clothes, and an ancient toque which had once known a better head. The wan remains of a

little bit of fur lay round her throat. She had a thin face, not without refinement, mild, very clear brown eyes,

and a twist of smooth black hair. Beside her was a skimpy little boy, and in her arms a baby. Mrs. Dallison

"This old gentleman, Mr. Creed, lives in the same house with us, and he is going to speak to my husband."

"I likes to live at peace with everybody. I shall have the police to 'im if he misdemeans hisself with me!...

Westminister, sir?" And, screening his mouth from Mrs. Dallison, he added in a loud whisper: "Execution of

Cecilia felt suddenly as though the world were listening to her conversation with these two rather seedy

"I don't really know what I can do for you, Mrs. Hughs. I'll speak to Mr. Dallison, and to Mr. Hilary too."

With a smile which seemed to deprecate its own appearance, Cecilia grasped her skirts and crossed the road.

"I hope I wasn't unsympathetic," she thought, looking back at the three figures on the edge of the

pavementthe old man with his papers, and his discoloured nose thrust upwards under ironrimmed

spectacles; the seamstress in her black dress; the skimpy little boy. Neither speaking nor moving, they were

looking out before them at the traffic; and something in Cecilia revolted at this sight. It was lifeless, hopeless,

"What can one do," she thought, "for women like Mrs. Hughs, who always look like that? And that poor old

man! I suppose I oughtn't to have bought that dress, but Stephen is tired of this."

She turned out of the main street into a road preserved from commoner forms of traffic, and stopped at a long

It was the residence of Hilary Dallison, her husband's brother, and himself the husband of Bianca, her own

The queer conceit came to Cecilia that it resembled Hilary. Its look was kindly and uncertain; its colour a

palish tan; the eyebrows of its windows rather straight than arched, and those deepset eyes, the windows,

twinkled hospitably; it had, as it were, a sparse moustache and beard of creepers, and dark marks here and

there, like the lines and shadows on the faces of those who think too much. Beside it, and apart, though

connected by a passage, a studio stood, and about that studioof white roughcast, with a black oak door,

and peacockblue paintwas something a little hard and fugitive, well suited to Bianca, who used it, indeed,

to paint in. It seemed to stand, with its eyes on the house, shrinking defiantly from too close company, as

though it could not entirely give itself to anything. Cecilia, who often worried over the relations between her

sister and her brother inlaw, suddenly felt how fitting and symbolical this was.

But, mistrusting inspirations, which, experience told her, committed one too much, she walked quickly up the

stoneflagged pathway to the door. Lying in the porch was a little moonlightcoloured lady bulldog, of toy

breed, who gazed up with eyes like agates, delicately waving her bellrope tail, as it was her habit to do

towards everyone, for she had been handed down clearer and paler with each generation, till she had at last

Speaking the word "Miranda!" Mrs. Stephen Dallison tried to pat this daughter of the house. The little

Mondays were Blanca's "days," and Cecilia made her way towards the studio. It was a large high room, full

Motionless, by himself, close to the door, stood an old man, very thin and rather bent, with silvery hair, and a

thin silvery beard grasped in his transparent fingers. He was dressed in a suit of smokegrey cottage tweed,

which smelt of peat, and an Oxford shirt, whose collar, ceasing prematurely, exposed a lean brown neck; his

trousers, too, ended very soon, and showed light socks. In his attitude there was something suggestive of the

patience and determination of a mule. At Cecilia's approach he raised his eyes. It was at once apparent why,

in so full a room, he was standing alone. Those blue eyes looked as if he were about to utter a prophetic

"To take life," went on the old man in a voice which, though charged with strong emotion, seemed to be

speaking to itself, "was the chief mark of the insensate barbarism still prevailing in those days. It sprang from

that most irreligious fetish, the belief in the permanence of the individual ego after death. From the worship

"They did not stop to love each other in this life; they were so sure they had all eternity to do it in. The

doctrine was an invention to enable men to act like dogs with clear consciences. Love could never come to

Cecilia looked hastily round; no one had heard. She moved a little sideways, and became merged in another

group. Her father's lips continued moving. He had resumed the patient attitude which so slightly suggested

mules. A voice behind her said: "I do think your father is such an interesting man, Mrs. Dallison."

Cecilia turned and saw a woman of middle height, with her hair done in the early Italian fashion, and very

small, dark, lively eyes, which looked as though her love of living would keep her busy each minute of her

"Mrs. Tallents Smallpeace? Oh! how do you do? I've been meaning to come and see you for quite a long

With doubting eyes, half friendly and half defensive, as though chaffing to prevent herself from being

chaffed, Cecilia looked at Mrs. Tallents Smallpeace, whom she had met several times at Bianca's house. The

widow of a somewhat famous connoisseur, she was now secretary of the League for Educating Orphans who

have Lost both Parents, vicepresident of the Forlorn Hope for Maids in Peril, and treasurer to Thursday

Hops for Working Girls. She seemed to know every man and woman who was worth knowing, and some

besides; to see all pictureshows; to hear every new musician; and attend the opening performance of every

play. With regard to literature, she would say that authors bored her; but she was always doing them good

turns, inviting them to meet their critics or editors, and sometimesthough this was not generally

knownpulling them out of the holes they were prone to get into, by lending them a sum of moneyafter

She had a peculiar spiritual significance to Mrs. Stephen Dallison, being just on the borderline between those

of Bianca's friends whom Cecilia did not wish and those whom she did wish to come to her own house, for

Stephen, a barrister in an official position, had a keen sense of the ridiculous. Since Hilary wrote books and

was a poet, and Bianca painted, their friends would naturally be either interesting or queer; and though for

Stephen's sake it was important to establish which was which, they were so very often both. Such people

stimulated, taken in small doses, but neither on her husband's account nor on her daughter's did Cecilia desire

that they should come to her in swarms. Her attitude of mind towards them was, in fact, similara sort of

pleasurable dreadto that in which she purchased the Westminster Gazette to feel the pulse of social progress.

"I hear that Mr. Stonethat is your father's name, I thinkis writing a book which will create quite a

Cecilia bit her lips. "I hope it never will come out," she was on the point of saying.

"What will it be called?" asked Mrs. Tallents Smallpeace. "I gather that it's a book of Universal Brotherhood.

"Ah!" said Mrs. Tallents Smallpeace, "I do think your sister gets such attractive people at her At Homes.

Mrs. Tallents Smallpeace smiled. "I mean in art and social questions. Surely one can't be too interested in

"Oh no, of course not." And both ladies looked around them. A buzz of conversation fell on Cecilia's ears.

The voice of Mrs. Tallents Smallpeace broke through: "But do please tell me who is that young girl with the

"Thyme," said Cecilia, with a little smile. She felt that Mrs. Tallents Smallpeace was about to say: 'How

Mrs. Tallents Smallpeace saw her smile and paused. "Who is the young man with her?"

"The son of your brother who was killed with his wife in that dreadful Alpine accident? He looks a very

"Oh, really! How interesting! I do think the rising generation amusing, don't you? They're so independent."

Cecilia looked uneasily at the rising generation. They were standing side by side before the picture, curiously

observant and detached, exchanging short remarks and glances. They seemed to watch all these circling,

chatting, bending, smiling people with a sort of youthful, matteroffact, halfhostile curiosity. The young

man had a pale face, cleanshaven, with a strong jaw, a long, straight nose, a rather bumpy forehead which

did not recede, and clear grey eyes. His sarcastic lips were firm and quick, and he looked at people with

disconcerting straightness. The young girl wore a bluegreen frock. Her face was charming, with eager,

"That's your sister's picture, 'The Shadow,' they're looking at, isn't it?" asked Mrs. Tallents Smallpeace. "I

remember seeing it on Christmas Day, and the little model who was sitting for itan attractive type! Your

brotherinlaw told me how interested you all were in her. Quite a romantic story, wasn't it, about her

Cecilia murmured something. Her hands were moving nervously; she looked ill at ease.

These signs passed unperceived by Mrs. Tallents Smallpeace, whose eyes were busy.

"In the F.H.M.P., of course, I see a lot of young girls placed in delicate positions, just on the borders, don't

you know? You should really join the F.H.M.P., Mrs. Dallison. It's a firstrate thing most absorbing

"Don't you think that we live in the most interesting days? There are such a lot of movements going on. It's

quite exciting. We all feel that we can't shut our eyes any longer to social questions. I mean the condition of

"Politicians and officials are so hopeless, one can't look for anything from them."

"I was just talking to Mr. Balladyce. He says that Art and Literature must be put on a new basis altogether."

"Yes," said Mrs. Tallents Smallpeace absently, "I think we all feel that. Oh, do tell me! I've been talking to

such a delightful personjust the type you see when you go into the Citythousands of them, all in such

good black coats. It's so unusual to really meet one nowadays; and they're so refreshing, they have such nice

Cecilia by a nervous gesture indicated that she recognized the personality alluded to. "Oh, yes," she said;

"I think he's so delicious!" said Mrs. Tallents Smallpeace dreamily. Her little dark eyes, like bees, had flown

to sip honey from the flower in questiona man of broad build and medium height, dressed. with accuracy,

who seemed just a little out of his proper bed. His mustachioed mouth wore a set smile; his cheerful face was

rather red, with a forehead of no extravagant height or breadth, and a conspicuous jaw; his hair was thick and

light in colour, and his eyes were small, grey, and shrewd. He was looking at a picture.

"He's so delightfully unconscious," murmured Mrs. Tallents Smallpeace. "He didn't even seem to know that

"Oh yes, by Harpignies, with the accent on the 'pig.' It's worth three times what he gave for it. It's so nice to

be made to feel that there is still all that mass of people just simply measuring everything by what they gave

"And did he tell you my grandfather Carfax's dictum in the Banstock case?" muttered Cecilia.

"Oh yes: 'The man who does not know his own mind should be made an Irishman by Act of Parliament.' He

"Oh no; I believe he's quite a nice sort of person. One can't be rude to him; he really did what he thought a

very kind thing to my father. That's how we came to know him. Only it's rather trying when he will come to

"Ah, that's just what I feel is so jolly about him; no one would ever get on his nerves. I do think we've got too

many nerves, don't you? Here's your brotherinlaw. He's such an uncommonlooking man; I want to have a

She had turned her head towards a tall man with a very slight stoop and a brown, thin, bearded face, who was

approaching from the door. She did not see that Cecilia had flushed, and was looking at her almost angrily.

The tall thin man put his hand on Cecilia's arm, saying gently: "Hallo Cis! Stephen here yet?"

The tall man bowed. His hazelcoloured eyes were shy, gentle, and deepset; his eyebrows, hardly ever still,

gave him a look of austere whimsicality. His dark brown hair was very lightly touched with grey, and a

frequent kindly smile played on his lips. His unmannerismed manner was quiet to the point of extinction. He

A knot of people round Mr. Balladyce prevented her from moving far, however, and the voice of Mrs.

"I was talking about that little model. It was so good of you to take such interest in the girl. I wondered

"I fancied perhaps you might feel that our Societyhers is an unsatisfactory profession for young girls!"

"Of course, there are many very nice models indeed," said the voice of Mrs. Tallents Smallpeace. "I don't

mean that they are necessarily at allif they're girls of strong character; and especially if they don't sit for

Hilary's dry, staccato answer came to Cecilia's ears: "Thank you; it's very kind of you."

"Oh, of course, if it's not necessary. Your wife's picture was so clever, Mr. Dallisonsuch an interesting

Without intention Cecilia found herself before that picture. It stood with its face a little turned towards the

wall, as though somewhat in disgrace, portraying the fulllength figure of a girl standing in deep shadow,

with her arms half outstretched, as if asking for something. Her eyes were fixed on Cecilia, and through her

parted lips breath almost seemed to come. The only colour in the picture was the pale blue of those eyes, the

pallid red of those parted lips, the still paler brown of the hair; the rest was shadow. In the foreground light

Cecilia thought: "That girl's eyes and mouth haunt me. Whatever made Blanca choose such a subject? It is

The marriage of Sylvanus Stone, Professor of the Natural Sciences, to Anne, daughter of Mr. Justice Carfax,

of the wellknown county familythe Carfaxes of Spring Deans, Hantswas recorded in the sixties. The

baptisms of Martin, Cecilia, and Bianca, son and daughters of Sylvanus and Anne Stone, were to be

discovered registered in Kensington in the three consecutive years following, as though some singleminded

person had been connected with their births. After this the baptisms of no more offspring were to be found

anywhere, as if that single mind had encountered opposition. But in the eighties there was noted in the

there was, to those who knew, something more than met the eye. It summed up the mother of Cecilia and

Bianca, and, in more subtle fashion, Cecilia and Bianca, too. It summed up that fugitive, barricading look in

their bright eyes, which, though spoken of in the family as "the Carfax eyes," were in reality far from coming

from old Mr. Justice Carfax. They had been his wife's in turn, and had much annoyed a man of his decided

character. He himself had always known his mind, and had let others know it, too; reminding his wife that

she was an impracticable woman, who knew not her own mind; and devoting his lawful gains to securing the

future of his progeny. It would have disturbed him if he had lived to see his granddaughters and their times.

Like so many able men of his generation, farseeing enough in practical affairs, he had never considered the

possibility that the descendants of those who, like himself, had laid up treasure for their children's children

might acquire the quality of taking time, balancing pros and cons, looking ahead, and not putting one foot

down before picking the other up. He had not foreseen, in deed, that to wobble might become an art, in order

that, before anything was done, people might know the full necessity for doing some thing, and how

impossible it would be to do indeed, foolish to attempt to dothat which would fully meet the case. He, who

had been a man of action all his life, had not perceived how it would grow to be matter of common instinct

that to act was to commit oneself, and that, while what one had was not precisely what one wanted, what one

had not (if one had it) would be as bad. He had never been selfconsciousit was not the custom of his

generationand, having but little imagination, had never suspected that he was laying up that quality for his

descendants, together with a competence which secured them a comfortable leisure.

Of all the persons in his granddaughter's studio that afternoon, that stray sheep Mr. Purcey would have been,

perhaps, the only one whose judgments he would have considered sound. No one had laid up a competence

It is uncertain whether the mere fact that he was not in his own fold kept this visitor lingering in the studio

when all other guests were gone; or whether it was simply the feeling that the longer he stayed in contact with

really artistic people the more distinguished he was becoming. Probably the latter, for the possession of that

Harpignies, a good specimen, which he had bought by accident, and subsequently by accident discovered to

have a peculiar value, had become a factor in his life, marking him out from all his friends, who went in more

for a neat type of Royal Academy landscape, together with reproductions of young ladies in

eighteenthcentury costumes seated on horseback, or in Scotch gardens. A junior partner in a bankinghouse

of some importance, he lived at Wimbledon, whence he passed up and down daily in his car. To this he owed

his acquaintance with the family of Dallison. For one day, after telling his chauffeur to meet him at the Albert

Gate, he had set out to stroll down Rotten Row, as he often did on the way home, designing to nod to

anybody that he knew. It had turned out a somewhat barren expedition. No one of any consequence had met

his eye; and it was with a certain almost fretful longing for distraction that in Kensington Gardens he came on

an old man feeding birds out of a paper bag. The birds having flown away on seeing him, he approached the

This old man, who was dressed in smokegrey tweeds which exhaled a poignant scent of peat, looked at him

Mr. Purcey's shrewd grey eyes perceived at once that he had a character to deal with.

"Ah, yes!" he said; "I seeyou allude to the present time. That's very nice. Ha, ha!"

The old man answered: "The emotion of fear is inseparably connected with a primitive state of fratricidal

'The old chap,' he thought, 'is touched. He evidently oughtn't to be out here by himself.' He debated, therefore,

whether he should hasten away toward his car, or stand by in case his assistance should be needed. Being a

kindhearted man, who believed in his capacity for putting things to rights, and noticing a certain

delicacya "sort of something rather distinguished," as he phrased it afterwardsin the old fellow's face

and figure, he decided to see if he could be of any service. They walked along together, Mr. Purcey watching

his new friend askance, and directing the march to where he had ordered his chauffeur to await him.

The answer was of a nature to determine Mr. Purcey in his diagnosis of the case.

This new but aged acquaintance did not seem to hear; his lips moved as though he were following out some

"In those days," Mr. Purcey heard him say, "the congeries of men were known as rookeries. The expression

"The old chap knew where he lived right enough; but dash me if I believe he noticed that I was taking him

there in my carI had the A. i. Damyer out. That's how I came to make the acquaintance of these Dallisons.

He's the writer, you know, and she paintsrather the new schoolshe admires Harpignies. Well, when I got

there in the car I found Dallison in the garden. Of course I was careful not to put my foot into it. I told him: 'I

found this old gentleman wandering about. I've just brought him back in my car.' Who should the old chap

turn out to be but her father! They were awfully obliged to me. Charmin' people, but very what d'you call it

'fin de siecle'like all these professors, these artistic pigsseem to know rather a queer set, advanced

people, and all that sort of cuckoo, always talkin' about the poor, and societies, and new religions, and that

Though he had since been to see them several times, the Dallisons had never robbed him of the virtuous

feeling of that good actionthey had never let him know that he had brought home, not, as he imagined, a

It had been somewhat of a quiet shock to him to find Mr. Stone close to the doorway when he entered

Bianca's studio that afternoon; for though he had seen him since the encounter in Kensington Gardens, and

knew that he was writing a book, he still felt that he was not quite the sort of old man that one ought to meet

about. He had at once begun to tell him of the hanging of the Shoreditch murderer, as recorded in the evening

papers. Mr. Stone's reception of that news had still further confrmed his original views. When all the guests

were gonewith the exception of Mr. and Mrs. Stephen Dallison and Miss Dallison, "that awfully pretty

girl," and the young man "who was always hangin' about her"he had approached his hostess for some quiet

talk. She stood listening to him, very well bred, with just that habitual spice of mockery in her smile, which to

Mr. Purcey's eyes made her "a very strikin'lookin' woman, but rather" There he would stop, for it

required a greater psychologist than he to describe a secret disharmony which a little marred her beauty. Due

to some too violent cross of blood, to an environment too unsuited, to what notit was branded on her.

Those who knew Bianca Dallison better than Mr. Purcey were but too well aware of this fugitive, proud spirit

She was a little taller than Cecilia, her figure rather fuller and more graceful, her hair darker, her eyes, too,

darker and more deeply set, her cheekbones higher, her colouring richer. That spirit of the age, Disharmony,

must have presided when a child so vivid and darkcoloured was christened Bianca.

Mr. Purcey, however, was not a man who allowed the finest shades of feeling to interfere with his

enjoyments. She was a "strikin' lookin' woman," and there was, thanks to Harpignies, a link between them.

"Your father and I, Mrs. Dallison, can't quite understand each other," he began. "Our views of life don't seem

"Really," murmured Bianca; "I should have thought that you'd have got on so well."

"He's a little bit tooerscriptural for me, perhaps," said Mr. Purcey, with some delicacy.

"Did we never tell you," Bianca answered softly, "that my father was a rather wellknown man of science

"Ah!" replied Mr. Purcey, a little puzzled; "that, of course. D'you know, of all your pictures, Mrs. Dallison, I

think that one you call 'The Shadow' is the most rippin'. There's a something about it that gets hold of you.

That was the original, wasn't it, at your Christmas partyattractive girlit's an awf'ly good likeness."

Bianca's face had changed, but Mr. Purcey was not a man to notice a little thing like that.

"If ever you want to part with it," he said, "I hope you'll give me a chance. I mean it'd be a pleasure to me to

Bianca did not answer, and Mr. Purcey, feeling suddenly a little awkward, said: "I've got my car waiting. I

When the door had closed behind his back, a universal sigh went up. It was followed by a silence, which

Stephen Dallison placed a cigarette between his moustacheless lips, always rather screwed up, and ready to

"Phew!" he said. "Our friend Purcey becomes a little tedious. He seems to take the whole of Philistia about

"A bit heavy, surely!" Stephen Dallison's face, though also long and narrow, was not much like his brother's.

His eyes, though not unkind, were far more scrutinising, inquisitive, and practical; his hair darker, smoother.

"Now, that's the sort of man to give you a good sound opinion. You should have asked him, Cis."

"Well, I don't see what I can do for the good woman, my dear. One can't interfere in these domestic matters."

"But it seems dreadful that we who employ her should be able to do nothing for her. Don't you think so, B.?"

Bianca's voice, which had the selfdistrustful ring of modern music, suited her personality.

"On the contrary," said Martin suddenly, in a deep bass voice, "it tells you everything. Go on."

"The Hughs live on the top floor at No. 1. It's the best house in the street. On the groundfloor are some

people called Budgen; he's a labourer, and she's lame. They've got one son. The Hughs have let off the

"He makes about one and tenpence a day by selling papers. The back room on that floor they let, of course,

There was a silence such as falls when no one knows how far the matter mentioned is safe to, touch on.

"Her room's much the best in the house; it's airy, and it looks out over someone's garden. I suppose she stays

there because it's so cheap. The Hughs' rooms are" She stopped, wrinkling her straight nose.

"So that's the household," said Hilary. "Two married couples, one young man, one young girl"his eyes

travelled from one to another of the two married couples, the young man, and the young girl, collected in this

"Not quite the sort of place for you to go poking about in, Thyme," Stephen said ironically. "Do you think so,

Stephen raised his brows, and glanced towards his wife. Her face was dubious, a little scared. There was a

"Well?" That word, like nearly all her speeches, seemed rather to disconcert her hearers.

"She says so," replied Cecilia" at least, that's what I understood. Of course, I don't know any details."

Cecilia rose uneasily. These words concreted suddenly a wealth of halfacknowledged doubts about her little

daughter. This came of letting her hear people talk, and go about with Martin! She might even have been

listening to her grandfathersuch a thought was most disturbing. And, afraid, on the one hand, of gainsaying

the liberty of speech, and, on the other, of seeming to approve her daughter's knowledge of the world, she

But Stephen did not speak, feeling, no doubt, that to pursue the subject would be either to court an ethical,

even an abstract, disquisition, and this one did not do in anybody's presence, much less one's wife's or

daughter's; or to touch on sordid facts of doubtful character, which was equally distasteful in the

The dusk was gathering outside; the fire threw a flickering light, fitfully outlining their figures, making those

At last Stephen broke the silence. "Of course, I'm very sorry for her, but you'd better let it aloneyou can't

tell with that sort of people; you never can make out what they wantit's safer not to meddle. At all events,

Bianca looked at him for the first time; then, turning to her nephew, said: "What do you say, Martin?"

The young man, whose face was stained by the firelight the colour of pale cheese, made no answer.

Everyone turned round. Mr. Stone was seen emerging from behind "The Shadow"; his frail figure, in its grey

Mr. Stone looked round bewildered; it seemed as if he, too, had been ignorant of that fact.

There was a vague rustling, as of people not taking a remark too seriously, and the sound of a closing door.

Turning at his writingtable to look at the face of his young niece, Hilary Dallison answered:

"My dear, we have had the same state of affairs since the beginning of the world. There is no chemical

process; so far as my knowledge goes, that does not make waste products. What your grandfather calls our

'shadows' are the waste products of the social process. That there is a submerged tenth is as certain as that

there is an emerged fiftieth like ourselves; exactly who they are and how they come, whether they can ever be

The figure of the girl seated in the big armchair did not stir. Her lips pouted contemptuously, a frown

Thyme's foot shot forth; it nearly came into contact with Miranda, the little bulldog.

"They are hateful, disgusting, and heartrending. That does not make the problem any the less difficult, does

"My dear," said Hilary, "don't you think perhaps that people who have what is called a low opinion of human

nature are really more tolerant of it, more in love with it, in fact, than those who, looking to what human

The look which Thyme directed at her uncle's amiable, attractive face, with its pointed beard, high forehead,

"I don't want you to have an unnecessarily low opinion of me, my dear. I'm not one of those people who tell

you that everything's all right because the rich have their troubles as well as the poor. A certain modicum of

decency and comfort is obviously necessary to man before we can begin to do anything but pity him; but that

doesn't make it any easier to know how you're going to insure him that modicum of decency and comfort,

"My dear," said Hilary, "think of Mr. Purcey! What proportion of the upper classes do you imagine is even

conscious of that necessity? We, who have got what I call the social conscience, rise from the platform of Mr.

Purcey; we're just a gang of a few thousands to Mr. Purcey's tens of thousands, and how many even of us are

prepared, or, for the matter of that, fitted, to act on our consciousness? In spite of your grandfather's ideas, I'm

afraid we're all too much divided into classes; man acts, and always has acted, in classes."

"Is it? I thought one's class, perhaps, was only oneself exaggeratednot to be shaken off. For instance, what

Thyme gave him the cruel look of youth, which seemed to say: 'You are my very good uncle, and a dear; but

She was gone; and Hilary, with a sigh, took his pen up, but he wrote nothing down ....

Hilary and Stephen Dallison were grandsons of that Canon Dallison, well known as friend, and sometime

adviser, of a certain Victorian novelist. The Canon, who came of an old Oxfordshire family, which for three

hundred years at least had served the Church or State, was himself the author of two volumes of "Socratic

Dialogues." He had bequeathed to his sona permanent official in the Foreign Officeif not his literary

talent, the tradition at all events of culture. This tradition had in turn been handed on to Hilary and Stephen.

Educated at a public school and Cambridge, blessed with competent, though not large, independent incomes,

and brought up never to allude to money if it could possibly be helped, the two young men had been turned

out of the mint with something of the same outward stamp on them. Both were kindly, both fond of openair

pursuits, and neither of them lazy. Both, too, were very civilised, with that bonedeep decency, that dislike of

violence, nowhere so prevalent as in the upper classes of a country whose settled institutions are as old as its

roads, or the walls which insulate its parks. But as time went on, the one great quality which heredity and

education, environment and means, had bred in both of themselfconsciousnessacted in these two

brothers very differently. To Stephen it was preservative, keeping him, as it were, in ice throughout

hotweather seasons, enabling him to know exactly when he was in danger of decomposition, so that he

might nip the process in the bud; it was with him a healthy, perhaps slightly chemical, ingredient, binding his

component parts, causing them to work together safely, homogeneously. In Hilary the effect seemed to have

been otherwise; like some slow and subtle poison, this great quality, selfconsciousness, had soaked his

system through and through; permeated every cranny of his spirit, so that to think a definite thought, or do a

definite deed, was obviously becoming difficult to him. It took in the main the form of a sort of gentle

"It's a remarkable thing," he had one day said to Stephen, "that by the process of assimilating little bits of

choppedup cattle one should be able to form the speculation of how remarkable a thing it is."

Stephen had paused a second before answeringthey were lunching off roast beef in the Law Courtshe

"You're surely not going to eschew the higher mammals, like our respected fatherinlaw?"

"On the contrary," said Hilary, "to chew them; but it is remarkable, for all that; you missed my point."

It was clear that a man who could see anything remarkable in such a thing was far gone, and Stephen had

Hilary, having given his brother the special retiring smile, which seemed not only to say; "Don't let me bore

you," but also, "Well, perhaps you had better wait outside," the conversation closed.

That smile of Hilary's, which jibbed away from things, though disconcerting and apt to put an end to

intercourse, was natural enough. A sensitive man, who had passed his life amongst cultivated people in the

making of books, guarded from real wants by modest, not vulgar, affluence, had not reached the age of

fortytwo without finding his delicacy sharpened to the point of fastidiousness. Even his dog could see the

sort of man he was. She knew that he would take no liberties, either with her ears or with her tail. She knew

that he would never hold her mouth ajar, and watch her teeth, as some men do; that when she was lying on

her back he would gently rub her chest without giving her the feeling that she was doing wrong, as women

will; and if she sat, as she was sitting now, with her eyes fixed on his study fire, he would never, she knew,

In his study, which smelt of a particular mild tobacco warranted to suit the nerves of any literary man, there

was a bust of Socrates, which always seemed to have a strange attraction for its owner. He had once

described to a fellowwriter the impression produced on him by that plaster face, so capaciously ugly, as

though comprehending the whole of human life, sharing all man's gluttony and lust, his violence and rapacity,

"He's telling us," said Hilary, "to drink deep, to dive down and live with mermaids, to lie out on the hills

under the sun, to sweat with helots, to know all things and all men. No seat, he says, among the Wise, unless

we've been through it all before we climb! That's how he strikes menot too cheering for people of our

Under the shadow of this bust Hilary rested his forehead on his hand. In front of him were three open books

and a pile of manuscript, and pushed to one side a little sheaf of pieces of greenwhite paper, presscuttings

The exact position occupied by his work in the life of such a man is not too easy to define. He earned an

income by it, but he was not dependent on that income. As poet, critic, writer of essays, he had made himself

a certain namenot a great name, but enough to swear by. Whether his fastidiousness could have stood the

conditions of literary existence without private means was now and then debated by his friends; it could

probably have done so better than was supposed, for he sometimes startled those who set him down as a

dilettante by a horny way of retiring into his shell for the finish of a piece of work.

Try as he would that morning to keep his thoughts concentrated on his literary labour, they wandered to his

conversation with his niece and to the discussion on Mrs. Hughs; the family seamstress, in his wife's studio

the day before. Stephen had lingered behind Cecilia and Thyme when they went away after dinner, to deliver

And across the dark garden he had looked back towards the house. One room on the groundfloor alone was

lighted. Through its open window the head and shoulders of Mr. Stone could be seen close to a small green

"But, I say, our old friend, eh? 'In those placesin those streets!' It's worse than simple crankinessthe poor

"And, touching his forehead lightly with two fingers, he had hurried off with the everspringy step of one

Pausing a minute amongst the bushes, Hilary too had looked at the lighted window which broke the dark

front of his house, and his little moonlight bulldog, peering round his legs, had gazed up also. Mr. Stone was

still standing, pen in hand, presumably deep in thought. His silvered head and beard moved slightly to the

efforts of his brain. He came over to the window, and, evidently not seeing his soninlaw, faced out into the

In that darkness were all the shapes and lights and shadows of a London night in spring: the trees in dark

bloom; the wan yellow of the gaslamps, pale emblems of the selfconsciousness of towns; the clustered

shades of the tiny leaves, spilled, purple, on the surface of the road, like bunches of black grapes squeezed

down into the earth by the feet of the passersby. There, too, were shapes of men and women hurrying home,

and the great blocked shapes of the houses where they lived. A halo hovered above the Citya high haze of

yellow light, dimming the stars. The black, slow figure of a policeman moved noiselessly along the railings

>From then till eleven o'clock, when he would make himself some cocoa on a little spiritlamp, the writer of

the "Book of Universal Brotherhood" would alternate between his bent posture above his manuscript and his

There certainly was a virus in that notion. One must either take it as a jest, like Stephen; or, what must one

do? How far was it one's business to identify oneself with other people, especially the helplesshow far to

preserve oneself intact'integer vita'? Hilary was no young person, like his niece or Martin, to whom

everything seemed simple; nor was he an old person like their grandfather, for whom life had lost its

And, very conscious of his natural disabilities for a decision on a like, or indeed on any, subject except,

perhaps, a point of literary technique, he got up from his writingtable, and, taking his little bulldog, went

out. His intention was to visit Mrs. Hughs in Hound Street, and see with his own eyes the state of things. But

When in the preceding autumn Bianca began her picture called "The Shadow," nobody was more surprised

than Hilary that she asked him to find her a model for the figure. Not knowing the nature of the picture, nor

having been for many yearsperhaps neveradmitted into the workings of his wife's spirit, he said:

Blanca answered: "She's not the type at alltoo matteroffact. Besides, I don't want a lady; the figure's to

Blanca knew quite well that he was smiling at this distinction between ladies and other women, and

understood that he was smiling, not so much at her, but at himself, for secretly agreeing with the distinction

There was the whole history of their married life in those two smiles. They meant so much: so many thousand

hours of suppressed irritation, so many baffled longings and earnest efforts to bring their natures together.

They were the supreme, quiet evidence of the divergence of two livesthat slow divergence which had been

far from being wilful, and was the more hopeless in that it had been so gradual and so gentle. They had never

really had a quarrel, having enlightened views of marriage; but they had smiled. They had smiled so often

through so many years that no two people in the world could very well be further from each other. Their

smiles had banned the revelation even to themselves of the tragedy of their wedded state. It is certain that

neither could help those smiles, which were not intended to wound, but came on their faces as naturally as

Hilary spent two afternoons among his artist friends, trying, by means of the indications he had gathered, to

find a model for "The Shadow." He had found one at last. Her name, Barton, and address had been given him

"She's never sat to me," he said; "my sister discovered her in the West Country somewhere. She's got a story

"No," said the painter of still life; "my sister's married and gone out to India. I don't know whether she'd sit

for the halfdraped, but I should think so. She'll have to, sooner or later; she may as well begin, especially to

a woman. There's a something about her that's attractiveyou might try her!" And with these words he

Hilary had written to this girl to come and see him. She had come just before dinner the same day.

He found her standing in the middle of his study, not daring, as it seemed, to go near the furniture, and as

there was very little light, he could hardly see her face. She was resting a foot, very patient, very still, in an

old brown skirt, an illshaped blouse, and a blue green tamo'shanter cap. Hilary turned up the light. He

saw a round little face with broad cheekbones, flowerblue eyes, short lampblack lashes, and slightly parted

lips. It was difficult to judge of her figure in those old clothes, but she was neither short nor tall; her neck was

white and well set on, her hair pale brown and abundant. Hilary noted that her chin, though not receding, was

too soft and small; but what he noted chiefly was her look of patient expectancy, as though beyond the

present she were seeing something, not necessarily pleasant, which had to come. If he had not known from

the painter of still life that she was from the country, he would have thought her a townbred girl, she looked

so pale. Her appearance, at all events, was not "too matteroffact." Her speech, however, with its slight

WestCountry burr, was matteroffact enough, concerned entirely with how long she would have to sit, and

the pay she was to get for it. In the middle of their conversation she sank down on the floor, and Hilary was

driven to restore her with biscuits and liqueur, which in his haste he took for brandy. It seemed she had not

eaten since her breakfast the day before, which had consisted of a cup of tea. In answer to his remonstrance,

"If you haven't money, you can't buy things.... There's no one I can ask up here; I'm a stranger."

"No," the little model answered sullenly; " I don't want to sit as most of them want me to till I'm obliged."

The blood rushed up in her face with startling vividness, then left it white again.

Both he and his wife were accessible to cases of distress, but the nature of their charity was different. Hilary

was constitutionally unable to refuse his aid to anything that held out a hand for it. Bianca (whose sociology

was sounder), while affirming that charity was wrong, since in a properly constituted State no one should

need help, referred her cases, like Stephen, to the "Society for the Prevention of Begging," which took much

But in this case what was of importance was that the poor girl should have a meal, and after that to find out if

she were living in a decent house; and since she appeared not to be, to recommend her somewhere better.

And as in charity it is always well to kill two birds with one expenditure of force, it was found that Mrs.

Hughs, the seamstress, had a single room to let unfurnished, and would be more than glad of four shillings, or

even three and six, a week for it. Furniture was also found for her: a bed that creaked, a washstand, table, and

chest of drawers; a carpet, two chairs, and certain things to cook with; some of those old photographs and

prints that hide in cupboards, and a peculiar little clock, which frequently forgot the time of day. All these

and some elementary articles of dress were sent round in a little van, with three ferns whose time had nearly

come, and a piece of the plant called "honesty." Soon after this she came to "sit." She was a very quiet and

passive little model, and was not required to pose halfdraped, Bianca having decided that, after all, "The

Shadow" was better represented fully clothed; for, though she discussed the nude, and looked on it with

freedom, when it came to painting unclothed people, she felt a sort of physical aversion.

Hilary, who was curious, as a man naturally would be, about anyone who had fainted from hunger at his feet,

came every now and then to see, and would sit watching this little halfstarved girl with kindly and

screwedup eyes. About his personality there was all the evidence of that saying current among those who

knew him: "Hilary would walk a mile sooner than tread on an ant." The little model, from the moment when

he poured liqueur between her teeth, seemed to feel he had a claim on her, for she reserved her small,

matterof fact confessions for his ears. She made them in the garden, coming in or going out; or outside,

and, now and then, inside his study, like a child who comes and shows you a sore finger. Thus, quite

"I've four shillings left over this week, Mr. Dallison," or, "Old Mr. Creed's gone to the hospital today, Mr.

Her face soon became less bloodless than on that first evening, but it was still pale, inclined to colour in

wrong places on cold days, with little blue veins about the temples and shadows under the eyes. The lips were

still always a trifle parted, and she still seemed to be looking out for what was coming, like a little Madonna,

or Venus, in a Botticelli picture. This look of hers, coupled with the matter offactness of her speech, gave

On Christmas Day the picture was on view to Mr. Purcey, who had chanced to "give his car a run," and to

other connoisseurs. Bianca had invited her model to be present at this function, intending to get her work.

But, slipping at once into a corner, the girl had stood as far as possible behind a canvas. People, seeing her

standing there, and noting her likeness to the picture, looked at her with curiosity, and passed on, murmuring

that she was an interesting type. They did not talk to her, either because they were afraid she could not talk of

the things they could talk of, or that they could not talk of the things she could talk of, or because they were

anxious not to seem to patronize her. She talked to one, therefore. This occasioned Hilary some distress. He

kept coming up and smiling at her, or making tentative remarks or jests, to which she would reply, "Yes, Mr.

Seeing him return from one of these little visits, an Art Critic standing before the picture had smiled, and his

round, cleanshaven, sensual face had assumed a greenish tint in eyes and cheeks, as of the fat in turtle soup.

The only two other people who had noticed her particularly were those old acquaintances, Mr. Purcey and

Mr. Stone. Mr. Purcey had thought, 'Rather a goodlookin' girl,' and his eyes strayed somewhat continually in

her direction. There was something piquant and, as it were, unlawfully enticing to him in the fact that she was

Mr. Stone's way of noticing her had been different. He had approached in his slightly inconvenient way, as

Made by the Art Critic or by Mr. Purcey, that somewhat strange remark would have had one meaning; made

by Mr. Stone it obviously had another. Having finished what he had to say, the author of the book of

"Universal Brotherhood" had bowed and turned to go. Perceiving that he saw before him the door and

nothing else, everybody made way for him at once. The remarks that usually arose behind his back began to

be heard"Extraordinary old man!" "You know, he bathes in the Serpentine all the year round?" "And he

cooks his food himself, and does his own room, they say; and all the rest of his time he writes a book!" "A

The Art Critic who had smiled waslike all mena subject for pity rather than for blame. An Irishman of

real ability, he had started life with high ideals and a belief that he could live with them. He had hoped to

serve Art, to keep his service pure; but, having one day let his acid temperament out of hand to revel in an

orgy of personal retaliation, he had since never known when she would slip her chain and come home

smothered in mire. Moreover, he no longer chastised her when she came. His ideals had left him, one by one;

he now lived alone, immune from dignity and shame, soothing himself with whisky. A man of rancour, meet

for pity, and, in his cups, contented. He had lunched freely before coming to Blanca's Christmas function, but

by four o'clock, the gases which had made him feel the world a pleasant place had nearly all evaporated, and

he was suffering from a wish to drink again. Or it may have been that this girl, with her soft look, gave him

the feeling that she ought to have belonged to him; and as she did not, he felt, perhaps, a natural irritation that

she belonged, or might belong, to somebody else. Or, again, it was possibly his natural male distaste for the

Two days later in a daily paper over no signature, appeared this little paragraph: "We learn that 'The Shadow,'

painted by Bianca Stone, who is not generally known to be the wife of the writer, Mr. Hilary Dallison, will

soon be exhibited at the Bencox Gallery. This very 'findesiecle' creation, with its unpleasant subject,

representing a woman (presumably of the streets) standing beneath a gaslamp, is a somewhat anaemic piece

of painting. If Mr. Dallison, who finds the type an interesting one, embodies her in one of his very charming

The little piece of greenwhite paper containing this information was handed to Hilary by his wife at

breakfast. The blood mounted slowly in his cheeks. Bianca's eyes fastened themselves on that flush. Whether

or noas philosophers saylittle things are all big with the past, of whose chain they are the latest links,

The marital relations of Hilary and his wife, which till then had been those of, at all events, formal

conjugality, changed from that moment. After ten o'clock at night their lives became as separate as though

they lived in different houses. And this change came about without expostulations, reproach, or explanation,

just by the turning of a key; and even this was the merest symbol, employed once only, to save the

ungracefulness of words. Such a hint was quite enough for a man like Hilary, whose delicacy, sense of the

ridiculous, and peculiar faculty of starting back and retiring into himself, put the need of anything further out

of the question. Both must have felt, too, that there was nothing that could be explained. An anonymous

double entendre was not precisely evidence on which to found a rupture of the marital tie. The trouble was so

much deeper than thatthe throbbing of a woman's wounded selfesteem, of the feeling that she was no

One morning in the middle of the week after this incident the innocent author of it presented herself in

Hilary's study, and, standing in her peculiar patient attitude, made her little statements. As usual, they were

very little ones; as usual, she seemed helpless, and suggested a child with a sore finger. She had no other

work; she owed the week's rent; she did not know what would happen to her; Mrs. Dallison did not want her

any more; she could not tell what she had done! The picture was finished, she knew, but Mrs. Dallison had

"....That old gentleman, Mr.Mr. Stone, had been to see her. He wanted her to come and copy out his book

for two hours a day, from four to six, at a shilling an hour. Ought she to come, please? He said his book

Before answering her Hilary stood for a full minute staring at the fire. The little model stole a look at him. He

suddenly turned and faced her. His glance was evidently disconcerting to the girl. It was, indeed, a critical

'Don't you think," he said at last, "that it would be much better for you to go back into the country?"

"No; and I don't want to go"; then, evidently seeing from Hilary's face that his delicacy forbade his

questioning her further, she brightened up, and murmured: "The old gentleman said it would make me

She kept turning her face back as she went down the path, as though to show her gratitude. And presently,

looking up from his manuscript, he saw her face still at the railings, peering through a lilac bush. Suddenly

she skipped, like a child let out of school. Hilary got up, perturbed. The sight of that skipping was like the

rays of a lantern turned on the dark street of another human being's life. It revealed, as in a flash, the

loneliness of this child, without money and without friends, in the midst of this great town.

The months of January, February, March passed, and the little model came daily to copy the "Book of

Mr. Stone's room, for which he insisted on paying rent, was never entered by a servant. It was on the

groundfloor, and anyone passing the door between the hours of four and six could hear him dictating

slowly, pausing now and then to spell a word. In these two hours it appeared to be his custom to read out, for

At five o'clock there was invariably a sound of plates and cups, and out of it the little model's voice would

rise, matteroffact, soft, monotoned, making little statements; and in turn Mr. Stone's, also making

statements which clearly lacked cohesion with those of his young friend. On one occasion, the door being

The LITTLE MODEL: "Mr. Creed says he was a butler. He's got an ugly nose." (A pause.)

Mr. STONE: "In those days men were absorbed in thinking of their individualities. Their occupations seemed

The LITTLE MODEL: "Mr. Creed says his savings were all swallowed up by illness."

Mr. STONE (suddenly): "There has been no church worth going to since A. D. 700."

And with a flying glance through the just open door Hilary saw her holding breadandbutter with inky

fingers, her lips a little parted, expecting the next bite, and her eyes fixed curiously on Mr. Stone, whose

transparent hand held a teacup, and whose eyes were immovably fixed on distance.

It was one day in April that Mr. Stone, heralded by the scent of Harris tweed and baked potatoes which

They walked out into Kensington Gardens, Hilary with his head rather bent towards the ground, and Mr.

Stone, with eyes fixed on his far thoughts, slightly poking forward his silver beard.

In their favourite firmaments the stars of crocuses and daffodils were shining. Almost every tree had its

pigeon cooing, every bush its blackbird in full song. And on the paths were babies in perambulators. These

were their happy huntinggrounds, and here they came each day to watch from a safe distance the little dirty

girls sitting on the grass nursing little dirty boys, to listen to the ceaseless chatter of these common urchins,

and learn to deal with the great problem of the lowest classes. And babies sat in their perambulators, thinking

and sucking indiarubber tubes. Dogs went before them, and nursemaids followed after.

The spirit of colour was flying in the distant trees, swathing them with brownishpurple haze; the sky was

saffroned by dying sunlight. It was such a day as brings a longing to the heart, like that which the moon

'Elmtrees!" said Mr. Stone. "It is not known when they assumed their present shape. They have one

universal soul. It is the same with man." He ceased, and Hilary looked round uneasily. They were alone on

Mr. Stone's voice rose again. "Their form and balance is their single soul; they have preserved it from century

to century. This is all they live for. In those days"his voice sank; he had plainly forgotten that he was not

alone"when men had no universal conceptions, they would have done well to look at the trees. Instead of

fostering a number of little souls on the pabulum of varying theories of future life, they should have been

concerned to improve their present shapes, and thus to dignify man's single soul"

The explanation of the little model's absence was thus stated by herself to Hilary: "I had an appointment."

"Mr. Lennard. He's a sculptor; he's got a studio in Chelsea. He wants me to pose to him."

Hilary turned to the window. "You know what posing to a sculptor means, of course?"

The little model's voice sounded behind him, matteroffact as ever: "He said I was just the figure he was

Hilary continued to stare through the window. "I thought you didn't mean to begin standing for the nude."

The girl was in a streak of sunlight; her pale cheeks flushed; her pale, halfopened lips red; her eyes, in their

setting of short black lashes, wide and mutinous; her young round bosom heaving as if she had been running.

"Mr. Dallison! I didn't mean thatI didn't really! I want to do what you tell me to doI do!"

Hilary stood contemplating her with the dubious, critical look, as though asking: "What is there behind you?

Are you really a genuine edition, or what?" which had so disconcerted her before. At last he said: "You must

"But you don't want me toI know you don't. Of course, if you don't want me to, then it'll be a pleasure not

The little model made a face. "I like Mr. Stonehe's such a funny old gentleman."

"That is the general opinion," answered Hilary. "But Mr. Stone, you know, thinks that we are funny."

The little model smiled faintly, too; the streak of sunlight had slanted past her, and, standing there behind its

glamour and million floating specks of golddust, she looked for the moment like the young Shade of Spring,

With the words "I am ready," spoken from the doorway, Mr. Stone interrupted further colloquy....

But though the girl's position in the household had, to all seeming, become established, now and then some

little incidentstraws blowing down the windshowed feelings at work beneath the family's apparent

friendliness, beneath that tentative and almost apologetic manner towards the poor or helpless, which marks

out those who own what Hilary had called the "social conscience." Only three days, indeed, before he sat in

his brown study, meditating beneath the bust of Socrates, Cecilia, coming to lunch, had let fall this remark:

"Of course, I know nobody can read his handwriting; but I can't think why father doesn't dictate to a typist,

Cecilia, dropping her quick glance to her fork, said just a little hastily: "Father is extraordinary, of course."

But the next three days Hilary was out in the afternoon when the little model came.

This, then, was the other reason, on the morning of the first of May, which made him not averse to go and

Hilary and his little bulldog entered Hound Street from its eastern end. It was a grey street of threestoried

houses, all in one style of architecture. Nearly all their doors were open, and on the doorsteps babes and

children were enjoying Easter holidays. They sat in apathy, varied by sudden little slaps and bursts of noise.

Nearly all were dirty; some had whole boots, some half boots, and two or three had none. In the gutters more

children were at play; their shrill tongues and febrile movements gave Hilary the feeling that their "caste"

exacted of them a profession of this faith: "Today we live; tomorrowif there be onewill be like

He had unconsciously chosen the very centre of the street to walk in, and Miranda, who had never in her life

demeaned herself to this extent, ran at his heels, turning up her eyes, as though to say: 'One thing I make a

Fortunately, there were no dogs; but there were many cats, and these cats were thin.

Through the upper windows of the houses Hilary had glimpses of women in poor habiliments doing various

kinds of work, but stopping now and then to gaze into the street. He walked to the end, where a wall stopped

him, and, still in the centre of the road, he walked the whole length back. The children stared at his tall figure

with indifference; they evidently felt that he was not of those who, like themselves, had no tomorrow.

No. 1, Hound Street, abutting on the garden of a house of better class, was distinctly the show building of the

street. The door, however, was not closed, and pulling the remnant of a bell, Hilary walked in.

The first thing that he noticed was a smell; it was not precisely bad, but it might have been better. It was a

smell of walls and washing, varied rather vaguely by red herrings. The second thing he noticed was his

moonlight bulldog, who stood on the doorstep eyeing a tiny sandy cat. This very little cat, whose back was

arched with fury, he was obliged to chase away before his bulldog would come in. The third thing he noticed

was a lame woman of short stature, standing in the doorway of a room. Her face, with big cheekbones, and

wideopen, light grey, darklashed eyes, was broad and patient; she rested her lame leg by holding to the

The woman sighed: "Been like that these five years"; and turned back into her room.

"Well, I did think so once," replied the woman, "but they say the bone's diseased; I neglected it at the start."

"We hadn't the time to give to it," the woman said defensively, retiring into a room so full of china cups,

photographs, coloured prints, waxwork fruits, and other ornaments, that there seemed no room for the

Wishing her goodmorning, Hilary began to mount the stairs. On the first floor he paused. Here, in the back

He looked around him. The paper on the passage walls was of a dingy orange colour, the blind of the window

torn, and still pursuing him, pervading everything, was the scent of walls and washing and red herrings. There

came on him a sickness, a sort of spiritual revolt. To live here, to pass up these stairs, between these dingy,

bilious walls, on this dirty carpet, with thisugh! every day; twice, four times, six times, who knew how

many times a day! And that sense, the first to be attracted or revolted, the first to become fastidious with the

culture of the body, the last to be expelled from the temple of the purespirit; that sense to whose refinement

all breeding and all education is devoted; that sense which, ever an inch at least in front of man, is able to

retard the development of nations, and paralyse all social schemesthis Sense of Smell awakened within

him the centuries of his gentility, the ghosts of all those Dallisons who, for three hundred years and more, had

served Church or State. It revived the souls of scents he was accustomed to, and with them, subtly mingled,

the whole live fabric of aestheticism, woven in fresh air and laid in lavender. It roused the simple,

nonextravagant demand of perfect cleanliness. And though he knew that chemists would have certified the

composition of his blood to be the same as that of the dwellers in this house, and that this smell, composed of

walls and washing and red herrings, was really rather healthy, he stood frowning fixedly at the girl's door,

and the memory of his young niece's delicately wrinkled nose as she described the house rose before him. He

Hilary's tall thin figure appearing in the open doorway of the top floor front, his kind and worried face, and

the pale agate eyes of the little bulldog peeping through his legs, were witnessed by nothing but a baby, who

was sitting in a wooden box in the centre of the room. This baby, who was very like a piece of putty to which

Nature had by some accident fitted two movable black eyes, was clothed in a woman's knitted undervest,

spreading beyond his feet and hands, so that nothing but his head was visible. This vest divided him from the

wooden shavings on which he sat, and, since he had not yet attained the art of rising to his feet, the box

divided him from contacts of all other kinds. As completely isolated from his kingdom as a Czar of all the

Russias, he was doing nothing. In this realm there was a dingy bed, two chairs, and a washstand, with one

lame leg, supported by an aged footstool. Clothes and garments were hanging on nails, pans lay about the

hearth, a sewingmachine stood on a bare deal table. Over the bed was hung an oleograph, from a Christmas

supplement, of the birth of Jesus, and above it a bayonet, under which was printed in an illiterate hand on a

rough scroll of paper: "Gave three of em what for at Elandslaagte. S. Hughs." Some photographs adorned the

walls, and two drooping ferns stood on the windowledge. The room withal had a sort of desperate tidiness;

in a large cupboard, slightly open, could be seen stowed all that must not see the light of day. The window of

the baby's kingdom was tightly closed; the scent was the scent of walls and washing and red herrings,

Hilary looked at the baby, and the baby looked at him. The eyes of that tiny scrap of grey humanity seemed

A lump rose in Hilary's throat; he turned and went downstairs. Pausing outside the little model's door, he

knocked, and, receiving no answer, turned the handle. The little square room was empty; it was neat and

clean enough, with a pinkflowered paper of comparatively modern date. Through its open window could be

seen a peartree in full bloom. Hilary shut the door again with care, ashamed of having opened it.

On the halflanding, staring up at him with black eyes like the baby's, was a man of medium height and

active build, whose short face, with broad cheekbones, cropped dark hair, straight nose, and little black

moustache, was burnt a dark dun colour. He was dressed in the uniform of those who sweep the streetsa

loose blue blouse, and trousers tucked into boots reaching halfway up his calves; he held a peaked cap in his

Hughs motioned with his cap towards the little model's room. "I thought perhaps you'd been to see her," he

said. His black eyes smouldered; there was more than class resentment in the expression of his face.

Flushing slightly and giving him a keen look, Hilary passed down the stairs without replying. But Miranda

had not followed. She stood, with one paw delicately held up above the topmost step.

A very aged man in blackrimmed spectacles, with a distended nose and long upper lip and chin, was

"Oh dear, yes. You deals with this 'ere shopthe tobacco department. I've often seen you when you've

abeen agoin' in. Sometimes you has the Pell Mell off o' this man here." He jerked his head a trifle to the left,

where a younger man was standing armed with a sheaf of whiter papers. In that gesture were years of envy,

heartburning, and sense of wrong. 'That's my paper,' it seemed to say, 'by all the rights of man; and that

"I sells this 'ere Westminister. I reads it on Sundaysit's a gentleman's paper, 'ighclass

papernotwithstandin' of its politics. But, Lor', sir, with this 'ere man asellin' the Pell Mell"lowering his

voice, he invited Hilary to confidence"so many o' the gentry takes that; an' there ain't too many o' the

gentry about 'ereI mean, not o' the real gentrythat I can afford to 'ave 'em took away from me."

Hilary, who had stopped to listen out of delicacy, had a flash of recollection. "You live in Hound Street?"

The old man answered eagerly: "Oh dear! Yes, sirNo. 1, name of Creed. You're the gentleman where the

"Oh no; it's an old gentleman; I know 'im. He come an' see me once. He come in one Sunday morning. 'Here's

a pound o' tobacca for you!' 'e says. 'You was a butler,' 'e says. 'Butlers!' 'e says, 'there'll be no butlers in fifty

years.' An' out 'e goes. Not quite"he put a shaky hand up to his head"not quiteoh dear!"

"I rents my room off o' them. A lady was aspeakin' to me yesterday about 'em; that's not your lady, I

His eyes seemed to apostrophise Hilary's hat, which was of soft felt: 'Yes, yesI've seen your sort astayin'

about in the best houses. They has you down because of your learnin'; and quite the manners of a gentleman

"Oh dear! She often has a paper off o' me. A real ladynot one o' these"again he invited Hilary to

confidence"you know what I mean, sirthat buys their things a' readymade at these 'ere large

Hilary's eyebrows began to execute those intricate manoeuvres which always indicated that he was about to

"She takes my advice, and don't 'ave nothin' to say to 'im. Dreadful foreignlookin' man 'e is. Wherever 'e

"So he says. He's one o' these that works for the Vestry; an' then 'e'll go an' get upon the drink, an' when that

sets 'im off, it seems as if there wasn't no respect for nothing in 'im; he goes on against the gentry, and the

Church, and every sort of institution. I never met no soldiers like him. Dreadful foreignWelsh, they tell

"I keeps myself to myself; low class o' street it is; dreadful low class o' person thereno selfrespect about

"These little 'ouses, they get into the hands o' little men, and they don't care so long as they makes their rent

out o' them. They can't help themselveslow class o' man like that; 'e's got to do the best 'e can for 'imself.

They say there's thousands o' these 'ouses all over London. There's some that's for pullin' of 'em down, but

that's talkin' rubbish; where are you goin' to get the money for to do it? These 'ere little men, they can't afford

not even to put a paper on the walls, and the big ground landlordsyou can't expect them to know what's

happenin' behind their backs. There's some ignorant fellers like this Hughs talks a lot o' wild nonsense about

the duty o' ground landlords; but you can't expect the real gentry to look into these sort o' things. They've got

The little bulldog, incommoded by the passersby, now took the opportunity of beating with her tail against

Miranda sought her master's eye at once. 'You see what happens to her if a lady loiters in the streets,' she

"It must be hard standing about here all day, after the life you've led," said Hilary.

"Sometimes of a wet night they lets me stand up in the archway there; they know I'm respectable. 'T wouldn't

never do for that man"he nodded at his rival"or any of them boys to get standin' there, obstructin' of the

"Accordin' to what she says, if I'm ato believe 'er, I'd have him up before the magistrate, sure as my name's

Creed, an' get a separation, an' I wouldn't never live with 'im again: that's what she ought to do. An' if he

come to go for her after that, I'd have 'im in prison, if 'e killed me first! I've no patience with a low class o'

The old butler answered stoutly: "There ain't but one way o' treatin' them low fellersketch hold o' them

Hilary was about to reply when he found himself alone. At the edge of the pavement some yards away,

Creed, his face upraised to heaven, was embracing with all his force the second edition of the Westminster

And trotting by his side, with her jaw set very firm, his little bulldog looked up above her eyes, and seemed to

In her morning room Mrs. Stephen Dallison sat at an old oak bureau collecting her scattered thoughts. They

lay about on pieces of stamped notepaper, beginning "Dear Cecilia," or "Mrs. Tallents Smallpeace requests,"

or on bits of pasteboard headed by the names of theatres, galleries, or concerthalls; or, again, on paper of not

quite so good a quality, commencing, "Dear Friend," and ending with a single wellknown name like

"Wessex," so that no suspicion should attach to the appeal contained between the two. She had before her

also sheets of her own writingpaper, headed "76, The Old Square, Kensington," and two little books. One of

these was bound in marbleised paper, and on it written: "Please keep this book in safety"; across the other,

cased in the skin of some small animal deceased, was inscribed the solitary word "Engagements."

Cecilia had on a Persiangreen silk blouse with sleeves that would have hidden her slim hands, but for silver

buttons made in the likeness of little roses at her wrists; on her brow was a faint frown, as though she were

wondering what her thoughts were all about. She sat there every morning catching those thoughts, and

placing them in one or other of her little books. Only by thus working hard could she keep herself, her

husband, and daughter, in due touch with all the different movements going on. And that the touch might be

as due as possible, she had a little headache nearly every day. For the dread of letting slip one movement, or

of being too much taken with another, was very real to her; there were so many people who were interesting,

so many sympathies of hers and Stephen's which she desired to cultivate, that it was a matter of the utmost

import not to cultivate any single one too much. Then, too, the duty of remaining feminine with all this going

forward taxed her constitution. She sometimes thought enviously of the splendid isolation now enjoyed by

Blanca, of which some subtle instinct, rather than definite knowledge, had informed her; but not often, for she

was a loyal little person, to whom Stephen and his comforts were of the first moment. And though she

worried somewhat because her thoughts WOULD come by every post, she did not worry very much

hardly more than the Persian kitten on her lap, who also sat for hours trying to catch her tail, with a line

When she had at last decided what concerts she would be obliged to miss, paid her subscription to the League

for the Suppression of Tinned Milk, and accepted an invitation to watch a man fall from a balloon, she

"Mrs. Stephen Dallison would be glad to have the blue dress ordered by her yesterday sent home at once

Ringing the bell, she thought: 'It will be a job for Mrs. Hughs, poor thing. I believe she'll do it quite as well as

Rose and Thorn.' "Would you please ask Mrs. Hughs to come to me?Oh, is that you, Mrs. Hughs?

The seamstress, who had advanced into the middle of the room, stood with her worn hands against her sides,

and no sign of life but the liquid patience in her large brown eyes. She was an enigmatic figure. Her presence

always roused a sort of irritation in Cecilia, as if she had been suddenly confronted with what might possibly

have been herself if certain little accidents had omitted to occur. She was so conscious that she ought to

sympathise, so anxious to show that there was no barrier between them, so eager to be all she ought to be,

'It's no good talking of her domestic matters,' thought Cecilia; 'not that I don't care!' But the silence getting on

Mrs. Hughs' whispering voice began: "He's behaving himself dreadful, m'm. I was going to speak to you. It's

ever since that young girl" her face hardened"come to live down in my room there; he seem to he

Cecilia's heart gave the little pleasurable flutter which the heart must feel at the love dramas of other people,

The seamstress answered in an agitated voice: "I don't want to speak against her, but she's put a spell on him,

that's what she has; he don't seem able to do nothing but talk of her, and hang about her room. It was that

troubling me when I saw you the other day. And ever since yesterday midday, when Mr. Hilary camehe's

been talking that wildand he pushed meandand" Her lips ceased to form articulate words, but,

since it was not etiquette to cry before her superiors, she used them to swallow down her tears, and something

At the mention of Hilary's name the pleasurable sensation in Cecilia had undergone a change. She felt

The seamstress plaited at her frock. "Of course, I can't help the way he talks, m'm. I'm sure I don't like to

repeat the wicked things he says about Mr. Hilary. It seems as if he were out of his mind when he gets talkin'

Cecilia was on the point of saying: 'That will do, please; I want to hear no more.' But her curiosity and queer

subtle fear forced her instead to repeat: "I don't understand. Do you mean he insinuates that Mr. Hilary has

anything to do withwith this girl, or what?" And she thought: 'I'll stop that, at any rate.'

"I tell him he's wicked to say such things, m'm, and Mr. Hilary such a kind gentleman. And what business is

it of his, I say, that's got a wife and children of his own? I've seen him in the street, I've watched him hanging

about Mrs. Hilary's house when I've been working there waiting for that girl, and following herhome"

Cecilia thought: 'I must tell Stephen at once. That man is dangerous.' A spasm gripped her heart, usually so

warm and snug; vague feelings she had already entertained presented themselves now with startling force;

she seemed to see the face of sordid life staring at the family of Dallison. Mrs. Hughs' voice, which did not

"I've said to him: 'Whatever are you thinking of? And after Mrs. Hilary's been so kind to me! But he's like a

At hearing her husband called a ruffian by another woman the shadow of resentment passed across Mrs.

Hughs' face, leaving it quivering and red. The conversation had already made a strange difference in the

manner of these two women to each other. It was as though each now knew exactly how much sympathy and

confidence could be expected of the other, as though life had suddenly sucked up the mist, and shown them

standing one on either side of a deep trench. In Mrs. Hughs' eyes there was the look of those who have long

discovered that they must not answer back for fear of losing what little ground they have to stand on; and

Cecilia's eyes were cold and watchful. 'I sympathise,' they seemed to say, 'I sympathise; but you must please

understand that you cannot expect sympathy if your affairs compromise the members of my family.' Her,

chief thought now was to be relieved of the company of this woman, who had been betrayed into showing

what lay beneath her dumb, stubborn patience. It was not callousness, but the natural result of being fluttered.

Her heart was like a bird agitated in its giltwire cage by the contemplation of a distant cat. She did not,

however, lose her sense of what was practical, but said calmly: "Your husband was wounded in South Africa,

you told me? It looks as if he wasn't quite.... I think you should have a doctor!"

Crossing to the hearthwhose Persianblue tiling had taken her so long to findCecilia stood beneath a

reproduction of Botticelli's "Primavera," and looked doubtfully at Mrs. Hughs. The Persian kitten, sleepy and

disturbed on the bosom of her blouse, gazed up into her face. 'Consider me,' it seemed to say; 'I am worth

consideration; I am of a piece with you, and everything round you. We are both elegant and rather slender;

we both love warmth and kittens; we both dislike interference with our fur. You took a long time to buy me,

so as to get me perfect. You see that woman over there! I sat on her lap this morning while she was sewing

your curtains. She has no right in here; she's not what she seems; she can bite and scratch, I know; her lap is

skinny; she drops water from her eyes. She made me wet all down my back. Be careful what you're doing, or

All that was like the little Persian kitten within Ceciliacosiness and love of pretty things, attachment to her

own abode with its high art lining, love for her mate and her own kitten, Thyme, dread of disturbanceall

made her long to push this woman from the room; this woman with the skimpy figure, and eyes that, for all

their patience, had in them something viragolike; this woman who carried about with her an atmosphere of

sordid grief, of squalid menaces, and scandal. She longed all the more because it could well be seen from the

seamstress's helpless attitude that she too would have liked an easy life. To dwell on things like this was to

Cecilia had no pocket, Providence having removed it now for some time past, but from her little bag she drew

forth the two essentials of gentility. Taking her nose, which she feared was shining, gently within one, she

fumbled in the other. And again she looked doubtfully at Mrs. Hughs. Her heart said: 'Give the poor woman

half a sovereign; it might comfort her!' But her brain said: 'I owe her fourandsix; after what she's just been

saying about her husband and that girl and Hilary, it mayn't be safe to give her more.' She held out two

halfcrowns, and had an inspiration: "I shall mention to my sister what you've said; you can tell your husband

No sooner had she said this, however, than she saw, from a little smile devoid of merriment and quickly

extinguished, that Mrs. Hughs did not believe she would do anything of the kind; from which she concluded

that the seamstress was convinced of Hilary's interest in the little model. She said hastily:

Cecilia returned to her scattered thoughts. They lay there still, with a gleam of sun from the low window

smearing their importance; she felt somehow that it did not now matter very much whether she and Stephen,

in the interests of science, saw that man fall from his balloon, or, in the interests of art, heard Herr von

Kraaffe sing his Polish songs; she experienced, too, almost a revulsion in favour of tinned milk. After

meditatively tearing up her note to Messrs. Rose and Thorn, she lowered the bureau lid and left the room.

Mounting the stairs, whose old oak banisters on either side were a real joy, she felt she was stupid to let

vague, sordid rumours, which, after all, affected her but indirectly, disturb her morning's work. And entering

Inside each one of them was a wooden soul; none had any creases, none had any holes. The moment they

wore out, their wooden souls were taken from them and their bodies given to the poor, whilstin accordance

with that theory, to hear a course of lectures on which a scattered thought was even now inviting herthe

Looking at that polished row of boots, Cecilia felt lonely and unsatisfied. Stephen worked in the Law Courts,

Thyme worked at Art; both were doing something definite. She alone, it seemed, had to wait at home, and

order dinner, answer letters, shop, pay calls, and do a dozen things that failed to stop her thoughts from

dwelling on that woman's tale. She was not often conscious of the nature of her life, so like the lives of many

hundred women in this London, which she said she could not stand, but which she stood very well. As a rule,

with practical good sense, she kept her doubting eyes fixed friendlily on every little phase in turn, enjoying

well enough fitting the Chinese puzzle of her scattered thoughts, setting out on each small adventure with a

certain cautious zest, and taking Stephen with her as far as he allowed. This last year or so, now that Thyme

was a grown girl, she had felt at once a loss of purpose and a gain of liberty. She hardly knew whether to be

glad or sorry. It freed her for the tasting of more things, more people, and more Stephen; but it left a little

void in her heart, a little soreness round it. What would Thyme think if she heard this story about her uncle?

The thought started a whole train of doubts that had of late beset her. Was her little daughter going to turn out

like herself? If not, why not? Stephen joked about his daughter's skirts, her hockey, her friendship with young

men. He joked about the way Thyme refused to let him joke about her art or about her interest in "the

people." His joking was a source of irritation to Cecilia. For, by woman's instinct rather than by any

reasoning process, she was conscious of a disconcerting change. Amongst the people she knew, young men

were not now attracted by girls as they had been in her young days. There was a kind of cool and friendly

matteroffactness in the way they treated them, a sort of almost scientific playfulness. And Cecilia felt

uneasy as to how far this was to go. She seemed left behind. If young people were really becoming serious, if

youths no longer cared about the colour of Thyme's eyes, or dress, or hair, what would there be left to care

forthat is, up to the point of definite relationship? Not that she wanted her daughter to be married. It would

be time enough to think of that when she was twentyfive. But her own experiences had been so different.

She had spent so many youthful hours in wondering about men, had seen so many men cast furtive looks at

her; and now there did not seem in men or girls anything left worth the other's while to wonder or look furtive

about. She was not of a philosophic turn of mind, and had attached no deep meaning to Stephen's jest"If

To Cecilia the extinction of the race seemed threatened; in reality her species of the race alone was vanishing,

which to her, of course, was very much the same disaster. With her eyes on Stephen's boots she thought:

'How shall I prevent what I've heard from coming to Bianca's ears? I know how she would take it! How shall

I prevent Thyme's hearing? I'm sure I don't know what the effect would be on her! I must speak to Stephen.

And, turning away from Stephen's boots, she mused: 'Of course it's nonsense. Hilary's much tootoo nice,

too fastidious, to be more than just interested; but he's so kind he might easily put himself in a false position.

Andit's ugly nonsense! B. can be so disagreeable; even now she's noton terms with him!' And suddenly

the thought of Mr. Purcey leaped into her mindMr. Purcey, who, as Mrs. Tallents Smallpeace had

declared, was not even conscious that there was a problem of the poor. To think of him seemed somehow at

that moment comforting, like rolling oneself in a blanket against a draught. Passing into her room, she opened

'Bother the woman!' she thought. 'I do want that gentian dress got ready, but now I simply can't give it to her

Since in the flutter of her spirit caused by the words of Mrs. Hughs, Cecilia felt she must do something, she

The furniture of the pretty room she shared with Stephen had not been hastily assembled. Conscious, even

fifteen years ago, when they moved into this house, of the grave Philistinism of the upper classes, she and

Stephen had ever kept their duty to aestheticism green; and, in the matter of their bed, had lain for two years

on two little white affairs, comfortable, but purely temporary, that they might give themselves a chance. The

chance had come at lasta bed in real keeping with the period they had settled on, and going for twelve

pounds. They had not let it go, and now slept in itnot quite so comfortable, perhaps, but comfortable

For fifteen years Cecilia had been furnishing her house; the process approached completion. The only things

remaining on her mindapart, 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

She was rather touching, as she stood before the wardrobe glass divested of her bodice, with dimples of

exertion in her thin white arms while she hooked her skirt behind, and her greenish eyes troubled, so anxious

to do their best for everyone, and save risk of any sort. Having put on a bramblecoloured frock, which laced

across her breast with silver latticework, and a hat (without feathers, so as to encourage birds) fastened to

her head with pins (bought to aid a novel school of metalwork), she went to see what sort of day it was.

The window looked out at the back over some dreary streets, where the wind was flinging light drifts of

smoke athwart the sunlight. They had chosen this room, not indeed for its view over the condition of the

people, but because of the sky effects at sunset, which were extremely fine. For the first time, perhaps,

Cecilia was conscious that a sample of the class she was so interested in was exposed to view beneath her

nose. 'The Hughs live somewhere there,' she thought. 'After all I think B. ought to know about that man. She

might speak to father, and get him to give up having the girl to copy for himthe whole thing's so worrying.'

In pursuance of this thought, she lunched hastily, and went out, making her way to Hilary's. With every step

she became more uncertain. The fear of meddling too much, of not meddling enough, of seeming

meddlesome; timidity at touching anything so awkward; distrust, even ignorance, of her sister's character,

which was like, yet so very unlike, her own; a real itch to get the matter settled, so that nothing whatever

should come of itall this she felt. She hurried, dawdled, finished the adventure almost at a run, then told

the servant not to announce her. The vision of Bianca's eyes, while she listened to this tale, was suddenly too

Mr. Stone was writing, attired in his working dressa thick brown woollen gown, revealing his thin neck

above the line of a blue shirt, and tightly gathered round the waist with tasselled cord; the lower portions of

grey trousers were visible above woollenslippered feet. His hair straggled over his thin long ears. The

"Come in quickly," said Mr. Stone. Turning to a big high desk of stained deal which occupied the middle of

one wall, he began methodically to place the inkstand, a heavy paperknife, a book, and stones of several

Cecilia looked about her; she had not been inside her father's room for several months. There was nothing in

it but that desk, a camp bed in the far corner (with blankets, but no sheets), a folding washstand, and a narrow

bookcase, the books in which Cecilia unconsciously told off on the fingers of her memory. They never

varied. On the top shelf the Bible and the works of Plautus and Diderot; on the second from the top the plays

of Shakespeare in a blue edition; on the third from the bottom Don Quixote, in four volumes, covered with

brown paper; a green Milton; the "Comedies of Aristophanes"; a leather book, partially burned, comparing

the philosophy of Epicurus with the philosophy of Spinoza; and in a yellow binding Mark Twain's

"Huckleberry Finn." On the second from the bottom was lighter literature: "The Iliad"; a "Life of Francis of

Assisi"; Speke's "Discovery of the Sources of the Nile"; the "Pickwick Papers"; "Mr. Midshipman Easy"; The

Verses of Theocritus, in a very old translation; Renan's "Life of Christ"; and the "Autobiography of

Benvenuto Cellini." The bottom shelf of all was full of books on natural science.

The walls were whitewashed, and, as Cecilia knew, came off on anybody who leaned against them. The floor

was stained, and had no carpet. There was a little gas cookingstove, with cooking things ranged on it; a

small bare table; and one large cupboard. No draperies, no pictures, no ornaments of any kind; but by the

window an ancient golden leather chair. Cecilia could never bear to sit in that oasis; its colour in this

Mr. Stone came from his writingdesk, and stood so that light might fall on a sheet of paper in his hand.

Cecilia noted the scent that went about with him of peat and baked potatoes. He spoke:

"Listen to this: 'In the condition of society, dignified in those days with the name of civilisation, the only

source of hope was the persistence of the quality called courage. Amongst a thousand nerve destroying

habits, amongst the dramshops, patent medicines, the undigested chaos of inventions and discoveries, while

hundreds were prating in their pulpits of things believed in by a negligible fraction of the population, and

thousands writing down today what nobody would want to read in two days' time; while men shut animals in

cages, and made bears jig to please their children, and all were striving one against the other; while, in a

word, like gnats above a stagnant pool on a summer's evening, man danced up and down without the faintest

notion whyin this condition of affairs the quality of courage was alive. It was the only fire within that

gloomy valley.'" He stopped, though evidently anxious to go on, because he had read the last word on that

Mr. Stone made a movement of his head, and Cecilia saw that he held a second sheet of paper in his hand.

"I want to talk to you, Dad!" Taking up the cord of his dressing gown, she pulled it by its tassel.

Mr. Stone lowered the sheet of paper, and stood, slightly curved from head to foot; his ears moved as though

he were about to lay them back; his blue eyes, with little white spots of light alongside the tiny black pupils,

Mr. Stone dropped his eyes, and Cecilia saw that he had moved the sheet of paper up as far as his waist.

"Then, Father, I do wish, to please me, you'd get someone else. I know what I'm talking about, and I"

Cecilia stopped; her father's lips and eyes were moving; he was obviously reading to himself.

'I've no patience with him,' she thought; 'he thinks of nothing but his wretched book.'

Aware of his daughter's silence, Mr. Stone let the sheet of paper sink, and waited patiently again.

"It's about that girl who comes to copy for you. Is there any reason why she should come instead of any other

So awkward a reply was not expected by Cecilia; she looked at the floor, forced to search within her soul.

"'The reason was not far to seek. Man, differentiated from the other apes by his desire to know, was from the

first obliged to steel himself against the penalties of knowledge. Like animals subjected to the rigours of an

Arctic climate, and putting forth more fur with each reduction in the temperature, man's hide of courage

thickened automatically to resist the spearthrusts dealt him by his own insatiate curiosity. In those days of

which we speak, when undigested knowledge, in a great invading horde, had swarmed all his defences, man,

suffering from a foul dyspepsia, with a nervous system in the latest stages of exhaustion, and a reeling brain,

survived by reason of his power to go on making courage. Little heroic as (in the then general state of petty

competition) his deeds appeared to be, there never had yet been a time when man in bulk was more

courageous, for there never had yet been a time when he had more need to be. Signs were not wanting that

this desperate state of things had caught the eyes of the community. A little sect'" Mr. Stone stopped; his

eyes had again tumbled over the bottom edge; he moved hurriedly towards the desk. Just as his hand removed

Mr. Stone stopped, and turned towards her. His daughter saw that he had gone quite pink; her annoyance

"Forgive me for reading to you, my dear," he said; "it's a great relief to me at times."

Cecilia went close to him, and refrained with difficulty from taking up the tasselled cord.

Mr. Stone looked full in her face, and before a gaze which seemed to go through her and see things the other

"There is a great deal in atavism," said Mr. Stone, "that we know nothing of at present."

Cecilia cried with heat, "I do wish you would attend a minute, Father; it's really an important matter," and she

But Cecilia thought: 'I must give him a good lesson. He really is too selfabsorbed'; and she did not move,

She could see nursemaids wheeling babies towards the Gardens, and noted their faces gazing, not at the

babies, but, uppishly, at other nursemaids, or, with a sort of cautious longing, at men who passed. How

selfish they looked! She felt a little glow of satisfaction that she was making this thin and bent old man

'He will know better another time,' she thought. Suddenly she heard a whistling, squeaking soundit was

"'animated by some admirable sentiments, but whose doctrines riddled by the fact that life is but the

change of form to formwere too constricted for the evils they designed to remedy; this little sect, who had

as yet to learn the meaning of universal love, were making the most strenuous efforts, in advance of the

community at large, to understand themselves. The necessary, movement which they voicedreaction

against the hightide of the fratricidal system then prevailingwas young, and had the freshness and honesty

Without a word Cecilia turned round and hurried to the door. She saw her father drop the sheet of paper; she

saw his face, all pink and silver, stooping after it; and remorse visited her anger.

In the corridor outside she was arrested by a noise. The uncertain light of London halls fell there; on close

inspection the sufferer was seen to be Miranda, who, unable to decide whether she wanted to be in the garden

or the house, was seated beneath the hatrack snuffling to herself. On seeing Cecilia she came out.

Peering at her over the tops of her eyes, Miranda vaguely lifted a white foot. 'Why ask me that?' she seemed

Her conduct, coming at that moment, overtried Cecilia's nerves. She threw open Hilary's studydoor, saying

Miranda did not move, but Hilary came out instead. He had been correcting proofs to catch the post, and

Cecilia, once more saved from the necessity of approaching her sister, the mistress of the house, so fugitive,

To Cecilia her brotherinlaw always seemed an amiable and more or less pathetic figure. In his literary

preoccupations he allowed people to impose on him. He looked unsubstantial beside the bust of Socrates,

which moved Cecilia strangelyit was so very massive and so very ugly! She decided not to beat about the

"I've been hearing some odd things from Mrs. Hughs about that little model, Hilary."

Cecilia went on nervously: "Mrs. Hughs says it's because of her that Hughs behaves so badly. I don't want to

"She says he follows her about, and comes down here to lie in wait for her. It's a most strange business

"I've been speaking to Father," Cecilia murmured; "but he's hopeless I, couldn't get him to pay the least

"I wanted him," she went on, "to get some other girl instead to come and copy for him."

Under the seeming impossibility of ever getting any farther, without saying what she had come to say, Cecilia

The frightful indelicacy of her situation at this moment, the feeling of unfairness that she should be placed in

it, almost overwhelmed Cecilia. "Goodness knows I don't want to meddle. I never meddle in anythingit's

"Well, Hughs evidently thinks you're interested in the girl. You can't keep anything from servants and people

who work about your house; they always think the worst of everythingand, of course, they know that you

Again the vision of her sister seemed to float into the room, and she went on desperately: "And, Hilary, I can

see Mrs. Hughs really thinks you are interested. Of course, she wants to, for if you were, it would mean that a

Astonished at this flash of cynical inspiration, and ashamed of such plain speaking, she checked herself.

Cecilia touched his arm. "Hilary, dear," she said, "isn't there any chance of you and B"

Cecilia looked sadly at the floor. Not since Stephen was bad with pleurisy had she felt so worried. The sight

of Hilary's face brought back her doubts with all their force. It might, of course, be only anger at the man's

impudence, but it might beshe hardly liked to frame her thoughta more personal feeling.

"Don't you think," she said, "that, anyway, she had better not come here again?"

"It's her only safe and certain piece of work; it keeps her independent. It's much more satisfactory than this

Cecilia had never seen him moved like this. Was it possible that he was not incorrigibly gentle, but had in

him some of that animality which she, in a sense, admired? This uncertainty terribly increased the difficulties

"But, Hilary," she said at last, "are you satisfied about the girlI mean, are you satisfied that she really is

"I mean," murmured Cecilia, "that we don't know anything about her past." And, seeing from the movement

of his eyebrows that she was touching on what had evidently been a doubt with him, she went on with great

courage: "Where are her friends and relations? I mean, she may have had aadventures."

"Well," she said in a hard little voice, "if this is what comes of helping the poor, I don't see the use of it."

The outburst evoked no reply from Hilary; she felt more tremulous than ever. The whole thing was so

confused, so unnatural. What with the dark, malignant Hughs and that haunting vision of Bianca, the matter

seemed almost Italian. That a man of Hughs' class might be affected by the passion of love had somehow

never come into her head. She thought of the back streets she had looked out on from her bedroom window.

Could anything like passion spring up in those dismal alleys? The people who lived there, poor downtrodden

things, had enough to do to keep themselves alive. She knew all about them; they were in the air; their

condition was deplorable! Could a person whose condition was deplorable find time or strength for any sort

Hearing her fears confirmed, and in accordance with the secret vein of hardness which kept her living, amid

all her sympathies and hesitations, Cecilia felt suddenly that she had gone as far as it was in her to go.

"I shall have no more to do with them," she said; "I've tried my best for Mrs. Hughs. I know quite as good a

needlewoman, who'll be only too glad to come instead. Any other girl will do as well to copy father's book. If

Hilary's smile puzzled and annoyed her. If she had known, this was the smile that stood between him and her

During her progress to the door she gave one look behind. Hilary was standing by the bust of Socrates. Her

heart smote her to leave him thus embarrassed. But again the vision of Biancafugitive in her own house,

and with something tragic in her mocking immobilitycame to her, and she hastened away.

Cecilia saw before her Mr. Purcey, rising and falling a little with the oscillation of his A.i. Damyer.

A sense as of having just left a house visited by sickness or misfortune made Cecilia murmur:

"Bad luck!" said Mr. Purcey. His face fell as far as so red and square a face could fall. "I was hoping perhaps

I might be allowed to take them for a run. She's wanting exercise." Mr. Purcey laid his hand on the flank of

his palpitating car. "Know these A.i. Damyers, Mrs. Dallison? Best value you can get, simply rippin' little

The A.i. Damyer, diffusing an aroma of the finest petrol, leaped and trembled, as though conscious of her

'Now do!" said Mr. Purcey. "Let me give you a runJust to please me, I mean. I'm sure you'll like her."

A little compunction, a little curiosity, a sudden revolt against all the discomfiture and sordid doubts she had

been suffering from, made Cecilia glance softly at Mr. Purcey's figure; almost before she knew it, she was

seated in the A.i. Damyer. It trembled, emitted two small sounds, one large scent, and glided forward. Mr.

A postman, dog, and baker's cart, all hurrying at top speed, seemed to stand still; Cecilia felt the wind beating

The A.i. Damyer uttered a tiny shriek. Cecilia, leaning back in her padded corner, glanced askance at Mr.

Purcey leaning back in his; an unholy, astonished little smile played on her lips.

'What am I doing?' it seemed to say. 'The way he got me here really! And now I am here I'm just going to

There were no Hughs, no little modelall that sordid life had vanished; there was nothing but the wind

Mr. Purcey said: "It just makes all the difference to me; keeps my nerves in order."

Mr. Purcey smiled. When he smiled his cheeks formed two hard red blocks, his trim moustache stood out,

"Chock full of them," he said; "least thing upsets me. Can't bear to see a hungrylookin' child, or anything."

A strange feeling of admiration for this man had come upon Cecilia. Why could not she, and Thyme, and

Hilary, and Stephen, and all the people they knew and mixed with, be like him, so sound and healthy, so

unravaged by disturbing sympathies, so innocent of "social conscience," so content?

As though jealous of these thoughts about her master, the A.i. Damyer stopped of her own accord.

"Hallo," said Mr. Purcey, "hallo, I say! Don't you get out; she'll be all right directly."

"Oh," said Cecilia, "thanks; but I must go in here, anyhow; I think I'll say goodbye. Thank you so much. I

>From the threshold of a shop she looked back. Mr. Purcey, on foot, was leaning forward from the waist,

The ethics of a man like Hilary were not those of the million pure bred Purceys of this life, founded on a

sense of property in this world and the next; nor were they precisely the morals and religion of the

aristocracy, who, though aestheticised in parts, quietly used, in bulk, their fortified position to graft on Mr.

Purcey's ethics the principle of 'You be damned!' In the eyes of the majority he was probably an immoral and

irreligious man; but in fact his morals and religion were those of his special section of societythe cultivated

classes, "the professors, the artistic pigs, advanced people, and all that sort of cuckoo," as Mr. Purcey called

thema section of society supplemented by persons, placed beyond the realms of want, who speculated in

Had he been required to make confession of his creed he would probably have framed it in some such way as

this: "I disbelieve in all Church dogmas, and do not go to church; I have no definite ideas about a future state,

and do not want to have; but in a private way I try to identify myself as much as possible with what I see

about me, feeling that if I could ever really be at one with the world I live in I should be happy. I think it

foolish not to trust my senses and my reason; as for what my senses and my reason will not tell me, I assume

that all is as it had to be, for if one could get to know the why of everything in one would be the Universe. I

do not believe that chastity is a virtue in itself, but only so far as it ministers to the health and happiness of the

community. I do not believe that marriage confers the rights of ownership, and I loathe all public wrangling

on such matters; but I am temperamentally averse to the harming of my neighbours, if in reason it can be

avoided. As to manners, I think that to repeat a bit of scandal, and circulate backbiting stories, are worse

offences than the actions that gave rise to them. If I mentally condemn a person, I feel guilty of moral lapse. I

hate selfassertion; I am ashamed of selfadvertisement. I dislike loudness of any kind. Probably I have too

much tendency to negation of all sorts. Smalltalk bores me to extinction, but I will discuss a point of ethics

or psychology half the night. To make capital out of a person's weakness is repugnant to me. I want to be a

Though he had preserved his politeness towards Cecilia, he was in truth angry, and grew angrier every

minute. He was angry with her, himself, and the man Hughs; and suffered from this anger as only they can

Such a retiring man as Hilary was seldom given the opportunity for an obvious display of chivalry. The tenor

of his life removed him from those situations. Such chivalry as he displayed was of a negative order. And

confronted suddenly with the conduct of Hughs, who, it seemed, knocked his wife about, and dogged the

When the little model came walking up the garden on her usual visit, he fancied her face looked scared.

Quieting the growling of Miranda, who from the first had stubbornly refused to know this girl, he sat down

with a book to wait for her to go away. After sitting an hour or more, turning over pages, and knowing little

of their sense, he saw a man peer over his garden gate. He was there for half a minute, then lounged across

'So?' thought Hilary. 'Shall I go out and warn the fellow to clear off, or shall I wait to see what happens when

He determined on the latter course. Presently she came out, walking with her peculiar gait, youthful and

pretty, but too matteroffact, and yet, as it were, too purposeless to be a lady's. She looked back at Hilary's

Hilary took his hat and stick and waited. In half a minute Hughs came out from under cover of the railings

There is left in every man something of the primeval love of stalking. The delicate Hilary, in cooler blood,

would have revolted at the notion of dogging people's footsteps. He now experienced the holy pleasures of

the chase. Certain that Hughs was really following the girl, he had but to keep him in sight and remain

unseen. This was not hard for a man given to mountainclimbing, almost the only sport left to one who

Taking advantage of shopwindows, omnibuses, passersby, and other bits of cover, he prosecuted the chase

up the steepy heights of Campden Hill. But soon a nearly fatal check occurred; for, chancing to take his eyes

off Hughs, he saw the little model returning on her tracks. Ready enough in physical emergencies, Hilary

sprang into a passing omnibus. He saw her stopping before the window of a picture shop. From the

expression of her face and figure, she evidently had no idea that she was being followed, but stood with a sort

of slack lipped wonder, lost in admiration of a wellknown print. Hilary had often wondered who could

possibly admire that picturehe now knew. It was obvious that the girl's aesthetic sense was deeply touched.

While this was passing through his mind, he caught sight of Hughs lurking outside a publichouse. The dark

man's face was sullen and dejected, and looked as if he suffered. Hilary felt a sort of pity for him.

The omnibus leaped forward, and he sat down smartly almost on a lady's lap. This was the lap of Mrs.

Tallents Smallpeace, who greeted him with a warm, quiet smile, and made a little room.

"Your sisterinlaw has just been to see me, Mr. Dallison. She's such a dearso interested in everything. I

Mrs. Tallents Smallpeace looked after him, and then glanced round the omnibus. His conduct was very like

the conduct of a man who had got in to keep an assignation with a lady, and found that lady sitting next his

aunt. She was unable to see a soul who seemed to foster this view, and sat thinking that he was "rather

attractive." Suddenly her dark busy eyes lighted on the figure of the little model strolling along again.

Hilary, to avoid meeting the girl pointblank, had turned up a by street, and, finding a convenient corner,

waited. He was puzzled. If this man were persecuting her with his attentions, why had he not gone across

She passed across the opening of the bystreet, still walking in the slack way of one who takes the pleasures

of the streets. She passed from view; Hilary strained his eyes to see if Hughs were following. He waited

several minutes. The man did not appear. The chase was over! And suddenly it flashed across him that Hughs

had merely dogged her to see that she had no assignation with anybody. They had both been playing the same

game! He flushed up in that shady little street, in which he was the only person to be seen. Cecilia was right!

It was a sordid business. A man more in touch with facts than Hilary would have had some mental

pigeonhole into which to put an incident like this; but, being by profession concerned mainly with ideas and

thoughts, he did not quite know where he was. The habit of his mind precluded him from thinking very

definitely on any subject except his literary workprecluded him especially in a matter of this sort, so

inextricably entwined with that delicate, dim question, the impact of class on class.

Pondering deeply, he ascended the leafy lane that leads between high railings from Notting Hill to

It was so far from traffic that every tree on either side was loud with the Spring songs of birds; the scent of

running sap came forth shyly as the sun sank low. Strange peace, strange feeling of old Mother Earth up there

above the town; wild tunes, and the quiet sight of clouds. Man in this lane might rest his troubled thoughts,

and for a while trust the goodness of the Scheme that gave him birth, the beauty of each day, that laughs or

broods itself into night. Some budding lilacs exhaled a scent of lemons; a sandy cat on the coping of a garden

In the centre of the lane a row of elmtrees displayed their gnarled, knotted roots. Human beings were seated

there, whose matted hair clung round their tired faces. Their gaunt limbs were clothed in rags; each had a

stick, and some sort of dirty bundle tied to it. They were asleep. On a bench beyond, two toothless old women

sat, moving their eyes from side to side, and a crimsonfaced woman was snoring. Under the next tree a

Cockney youth and his girl were sitting side by sidepale young things, with loose mouths, and hollow

cheeks, and restless eyes. Their arms were enlaced; they were silent. A little farther on two young men in

working clothes were looking straight before them, with desperately tired faces. They, too, were silent.

On the last bench of all Hilary came on the little model, seated slackly by herself.

This the first time these two had each other at large, was clearly not a comfortable event for either of them.

The girl blushed, and hastily got off her seat. Hilary, who raised his hat and frowned, sat down on it.

The little model obediently resumed her seat. A silence followed. She had on the old brown skirt and knitted

jersey, the old bluegreen tamo'shanter cap, and there were marks of weariness beneath her eyes.

She slid a look at him which might have meant nothing or meant much, so perfect its shy stolidity.

"Three and sixpence for my rent, and breakfast costs threepence nearlyonly breadandbutterthat's five

and two; and washing's always at least tenpencethat's six; and little things last week was a shillingeven

when I don't take busesseven; that leaves five shillings for my dinners. Mr. Stone always gives me tea. It's

my clothes worries me." She tucked her feet farther beneath the seat, and Hilary refrained from looking

down. "My hat is awful, and I do want some" She looked Hilary in the face for the first time. "I do wish I

The little model gritted her teeth, and, twisting at her dirty gloves, said: "Mr. Dallison, d'you know the first

"I'd buy everything new on me from top to toe, and I wouldn't ever wear any of these old things again."

Hilary had already perceived that he had made an awkward, even dangerous, proposal; short, however, of

giving her money, the idea of which offended his sense of delicacy, there was no way out of it. He said

The little model rose obediently. Hilary noticed that her boots were split, and thisas though he had seen

someone strike a childso moved his indignation that he felt no more qualms, but rather a sort of pleasant

glow, such as will come to the most studious man when he levels a blow at the conventions.

He looked down at his companionher eyes were lowered; he could not tell at all what she was thinking of.

"This is what I was going to speak to you about," he said: "I don't like that house you're in; I think you ought

"You'd better make a change, I think; you could find another room, couldn't you?"

Her expression baffled Hilary; there seemed a sort of slow enjoyment in it. She looked up knowingly.

She clasped her hands, changed her feet with a hop, and went on walking as before.

"Listen to me," said Hilary; "has Mrs. Hughs been talking to you about her husband?"

"Can you attend to me a minute? Have either Hughs or Mrs. Hughs spoken to you aboutcoming to my

The little model's face remained impassive, but by the movement of her fingers Hilary saw that she was

The stolidity of the girl's face, more mocking far than any smile, warned him of the cheapness of this

"If I was a lady," she repeated simply, "I shouldn't be livin' there, should I?"

The little model making no answer, Hilary did not quite know what to say. It was becoming apparent to him

that she viewed the situation with a very different outlook from himself, and that he did not understand that

He felt thoroughly at sea, conscious that this girl's life contained a thousand things he did not know, a

Their two figures attracted some attention in the crowded street, for Hilarytall and slight, with his thin,

bearded face and soft felt hatwas what is known as "a distinguishedlooking man"; and the little model,

though not "distinguishedlooking" in her old brown skirt and tamo'shanter cap, had the sort of face which

made men and even women turn to look at her. To men she was a little bit of strangely interesting, not too

usual, flesh and blood; to women, she was that which made men turn to look at her. Yet now and again there

would rise in some passerby a feeling more impersonal, as though the God of Pity had shaken wings

So walking, and exciting vague interest, they reached the first of the hundred doors of Messrs. Rose and

Hilary had determined on this end door, for, as the adventure grew warmer, he was more alive to its dangers.

To take this child into the very shop frequented by his wife and friends seemed a little mad; but that same

reason which caused them to frequent itthe fact that there was no other shop of the sort half so

handywas the reason which caused Hilary to go there now. He had acted on impulse; he knew that if he let

his impulse cool he would not act at all. The bold course was the wise one; this was why he chose the end

door round the corner. Standing aside for her to go in first, he noticed the girl's brightened eyes and cheeks;

she had never looked so pretty. He glanced hastily round; the department was barren for their purposes, filled

entirely with pyjamas. He felt a touch on his arm. The little model, rather pink, was looking up at him.

"Threethree," muttered Hilary; and suddenly he saw that they were on the threshold of that sanctuary. "Buy

He waited close beside a man with a pink face, a moustache, and an almost perfect figure, who was standing

very still, dressed from head to foot in blueandwhite stripes. He seemed the apotheosis of what a man

should be, his face composed in a deathless simper: "Long, long have been the struggles of man, but

civilization has produced me at last. Further than this it cannot go. Nothing shall make me continue my line.

In me the end is reached. See my back: 'The Amateur. This perfect style, 8s. 11d. Great reduction.'"

He would not talk to Hilary, and the latter was compelled to watch the shopmen. It was but half an hour to

closing time; the youths were moving languidly, bickering a little, in the absence of their customerslike

flies on a pane unable to get out into the sun. Two of them came and asked him what they might serve him

with; they were so refined and pleasant that Hilary was on the point of buying what he did not want. The

"It's thirty shillings; five and eleven was the cheapest, and stockings, and I bought some sta"

When she had paid the bill, and Hilary had taken from her a large brownpaper parcel, they journeyed on

together. He had armoured his face now in a slightly startled quizzicality, as though, himself detached, he

On the central velvet seat of the boot and shoe department, a lady, with an egret in her hat, was stretching out

a slim silkstockinged foot, waiting for a boot. She looked with negligent amusement at this common little

girl and her singular companion. This look of hers seemed to affect the women serving, for none came near

the little model. Hilary saw them eyeing her boots, and, suddenly forgetting his role of lookeron, he became

"If somebody," he said, "does not attend this young lady within a minute, I shall make a personal complaint

The hand of the watch, however, had not completed its round before a woman was at the little model's side.

Hilary saw her taking off her boot, and by a sudden impulse he placed himself between her and the lady. In

doing this, he so far forgot his delicacy as to fix his eyes on the little model's foot. The sense of physical

discomfort which first attacked him became a sort of aching in his heart. That brown, dingy stocking was

darned till no stocking, only darning, and one toe and two little white bits of foot were seen, where the

The little model wagged the toe uneasilyshe had hoped, no doubt, that it would not protrude, then

concealed it with her skirt. Hilary moved hastily away; when he looked again, it was not at her, but at the

Her face had changed; it was no longer amused and negligent, but stamped with an expression of offence.

'Intolerable,' it seemed to say, 'to bring a girl like that into a shop like this! I shall never come here again!' The

expression was but the outward sign of that inner physical discomfort Hilary himself had felt when he first

saw the little model's stocking. This naturally did not serve to lessen his anger, especially as he saw her

The lady rose, stood for a second with her eyebrows raised and her nostrils slightly distended, then went

The second pair of boots not "squeezing" her, the little model was soon ready to go down. She had all her

trousseau now, except the dressselected and, indeed, paid for, but which, as she told Hilary, she was

coming back to try on tomorrow, whenwhen. She had obviously meant to say when she was all new

underneath. She was laden with one large and two small parcels, and in her eyes there was a holy look.

Between the short black lashes were seen two very bright, wet shining eyes; her parted lips began to quiver.

But looking round, he saw her still standing there, half buried in parcels, gazing after him. Raising his hat, he

The old man, known to that low class of fellow with whom he was now condemned to associate as

"Westminister," was taking a whiff or two out of his old clay pipe, and trying to forget his feet. He saw

"Goodevenin', sir! Quite seasonable today for the time of year! Ho, yes! 'Westminister!'"

"Oh dear! He's agiven me an 'arfacrown. He does look wellI like to see 'im look as well as thatquite

The sunthat smoky, faring ball, which in its time had seen so many last editions of the Westminster

Gazettewas dropping down to pass the night in Shepherd's Bush. It made the old butler's eyelids blink

when he turned to see if the coin really was a halfcrown, or too good to be true.

And all the spires and houseroofs, and the spaces up above and underneath them, glittered and swam, and

Weighed down by her three parcels, the little model pursued her way to Hound Street. At the door of No. 1

the son of the lame woman, a tall weedy youth with a white face, was resting his legs alternately, and

The little model gave him a look. 'Mind your own business!' it said; but there was that in the flicker of her

Entering her room, she deposited the parcels on her bed, and untied the strings with quick, pink fingers.

When she had freed the garments from wrappings and spread them out, she knelt down, and began to touch

them, putting her nose down once or twice to sniff the linen and feel its texture. There were little frills

attached here and there, and to these she paid particular attention, ruffling their edges with the palms of her

hands, while the holy look came back to her face. Rising at length, she locked the door, drew down the blind,

undressed from head to foot, and put on the new garments. Letting her hair down, she turned herself

luxuriously round and round before the toosmall lookingglass. There was utter satisfaction in each gesture

of that whole operation, as if her spirit, long starved, were having a good meal. In this rapt contemplation of

herself, all childish vanity and expectancy, and all that wonderful quality found in simple unspiritual natures

of delighting in the present moment, were perfectly displayed. So, motionless, with her hair loose on her

neck, she was like one of those halfhours of Spring that have lost their restlessness and are content just to

Presently, however, as though suddenly remembering that her happiness was not utterly complete, she went

The sun, near to setting, had found its way through a hole in the blind, and touched her neck. She turned as

though she had received a kiss, and, raising a corner of the blind, peered out. The peartree, which, to the

annoyance of its proprietor, was placed so close to the back court of this lowclass house as almost to seem

to belong to it, was bathed in slanting sunlight. No tree in all the world could have looked more fair than it

did just then in its garb of gilded bloom. With her hand up to her bare neck, and her cheeks indrawn from

sucking the sweet, the little model fixed her eyes on the tree. Her expression did not change; she showed no

signs of admiration. Her gaze passed on to the back windows of the house that really owned the peartree,

spying out whether anyone could see herhoping, perhaps, someone would see her while she was feeling so

nice and new. Then, dropping the blind, she went back to the glass and began to pin her hair up. When this

was done she stood for a long minute looking at her old brown skirt and blouse, hesitating to defile her

newfound purity. At last she put them on and drew up the blind. The sunlight had passed off the peartree;

its bloom was now white, and almost as still as snow. The little model put another sweet into her mouth, and

producing from her pocket an ancient leather purse, counted out her money. Evidently discovering that it was

no more than she expected, she sighed, and rummaged out of a top drawer an old illustrated magazine.

She sat down on the bed, and, turning the leaves rapidly till she reached a certain page, rested the paper in her

lap. Her eyes were fixed on a photograph in the lefthand cornerone of those effigies of writers that appear

occasionally in the public press. Under it were printed the words: "Mr. Hilary Dallison." And suddenly she

The room grew darker; the wind, getting up as the sun went down, blew a few dropped petals of the peartree

In due accord with the old butler's comment on his looks, Hilary had felt so young that, instead of going

home, he mounted an omnibus, and went down to his clubthe "Pen and Ink," so called because the man

who founded it could not think at the moment of any other words. This literary person had left the club soon

after its initiation, having conceived for it a sudden dislike. It had indeed a certain reputation for bad cooking,

and all its members complained bitterly at times that you never could go in without meeting someone you

knew. It stood in Dover Street. Unlike other clubs, it was mainly used to talk in, and had special arrangements

for the safety of umbrellas and such books as had not yet vanished from the library; not, of course, owing to

any peculative tendency among its members, but because, after interchanging their ideas, those members

would depart, in a long row, each grasping some material object in his hand. Its. marooncoloured curtains,

too, were never drawn, because, in the heat of their discussions, the members were always drawing them. On

the whole, those members did not like each other much; wondering a little, one by one, why the others wrote;

and when the printed reasons were detailed to them, reading them with irritation. If really compelled to

hazard an opinion about each other's merits, they used to say that, no doubt "Soandso" was "very good,"

but they had never read him! For it had early been established as the principle underlying membership not to

read the writings of another man, unless you could be certain he was dead, lest you might have to tell him to

his face that you disliked his work. For they were very jealous of the purity of their literary consciences.

Exception was made, however, in the case of those who lived by written criticism, the opinions of such

persons being read by all, with a varying smile, and a certain cerebral excitement. Now and then, however,

some member, violating every sense of decency, would take a violent liking for another member's books.

This he would express in words, to the discomfort of his fellows, who, with a sudden chilly feeling in the

Almost every year, and generally in March, certain aspirations would pass into the club; members would ask

each other why there was no Academy of British Letters; why there was no concerted movement to limit the

production of other authors' books; why there was no prize given for the best work of the year. For a little

time it almost seemed as if their individualism were in danger; but, the windows having been opened wider

than usual some morning, the aspirations would pass out, and all would feel secretly as a man feels when he

has swallowed the mosquito that has been worrying him all night relieved, but just a little bit embarrassed.

Socially sympathetic in their dealings with each otherthey were mostly quite nice fellows each kept a

little famemachine, on which he might be seen sitting every morning about the time the papers and his

Hilary stayed in the club till halfpast nine; then, avoiding a discussion which was just setting in, he took his

It was the moment of suspense in Piccadilly; the tide had flowed up to the theatres, and had not yet begun to

ebb. The tranquil trees, still feathery, draped their branches along the farther bank of that broad river, resting

from their watch over the tragicomedies played on its surface by men, their small companions. The gentle

sighs which distilled from their plumelike boughs seemed utterances of the softest wisdom. Not far beyond

their trunks it was all dark velvet, into which separate shapes, adventuring, were lost, as wild birds vanishing

Hilary walked, hearing no sighs of wisdom, noting no smooth darkness, wrapped in thought. The mere fact of

having given pleasure was enough to produce a warm sensation in a man so naturally kind. But, as with all

selfconscious, selfdistrustful, natures, that sensation had not lasted. He was left with a feeling of emptiness

While walking, he was a target for the eyes of many women, who passed him rapidly, like ships in sail. The

special fastidious shyness of his face attracted those accustomed to another kind of face. And though he did

not precisely look at them, they in turn inspired in him the compassionate, morbid curiosity which persons

who live desperate lives necessarily inspire in the leisured, speculative mind. One of them deliberately

approached him from a sidestreet. Though taller and fuller, with heightened colour, frizzy hair, and a hat

with feathers; she was the image of the little modelthe same shape of face, broad cheekbones, mouth a

little open; the same flowercoloured eyes and short black lashes, all coarsened and accentuated as Art

coarsens and accentuates the lines of life. Looking boldly into Hilary's startled face, she laughed. Hilary

He reached home at halfpast ten. The lamp was burning in Mr. Stone's room, and his window was, as usual,

open; that which was not usual, however, was a light in Hilary's own bedroom. He went gently up. Through

the doorajarhe saw, to his surprise, the figure of his wife. She was reclining in a chair, her elbows on its

arms, the tips of her fingers pressed together. Her face, with its dark hair, vivid colouring, and sharp lines,

was touched with shadows, her head turned as though towards somebody beside her; her neck gleamed white.

So motionless, dimly seenshe was like a woman sitting alongside her own life, scrutinising, criticising,

watching it live, taking no part in it. Hilary wondered whether to go in or slip away from his strange visitor.

Hilary approached her. For all her mocking of her own charms, this wife of his was strangely graceful. After

nineteen years in which to learn every line of her face and body, every secret of her nature, she still eluded

him; that elusiveness, which had begun by being such a charm, had got on his nerves, and extinguished the

flame it had once lighted. He had so often tried to see, and never seen, the essence of her soul. Why was she

made like this? Why was she for ever mocking herself, himself, and every other thing? Why was she so hard

to her own life, so bitter a foe to her own happiness? Leonardo da Vinci might have painted her, less sensual

and cruel than his women, more restless and disharmonic, but physically, spiritually enticing, and, by her

refusals to surrender either to her spirit or her senses, baffling her own enticements.

And suddenly he began to kiss her face and neck. He felt her answering kisses; for a moment they were

clasped together in a fierce embrace. Then, as though by mutual consent, their arms relaxed; their eyes grew

furtive, like the eyes of children who have egged each other on to steal; and on their lips appeared the faintest

of faint smiles. It was as though those lips were saying: "Yes, but we are not quite animals!"

Hilary got up and sat down on his bed. Blanca stayed in the chair, looking straight before her, utterly inert,

her head thrown back, her white throat gleaming, on her lips and in her eyes that flickering smile. Not a word

Hilary had a feeling in his mouth as though he had been chewing ashes. And a phraseas phrases sometimes

fill the spirit of a man without rhyme or reasonkept forming on his lips: "The house of harmony!"

Presently he went to her door, and stood there listening. He could hear no sound whatever. If she had been

crying if she had been laughingit would have been better than this silence. He put his hands up to his ears

He passed his study door, and halted at Mr. Stone's; the thought of the old man, so steady and absorbed in the

Still in his brown woollen gown, Mr. Stone was sitting with his eyes fixed on something in the corner,

"It is boiling," said Mr. Stone. He took the saucepan off the flame, and, distending his frail cheeks, blew.

Then, while the steam mingled with his frosty beard, he brought two cups from a cupboard, filled one of

"I should like you," he said, "to hear three or four pages I have just completed; you may perhaps be able to

Hilary turned up the collar of his coat against the night wind which was visiting the room, and glanced at the

empty cup, for he was rather hungry. He heard a curious sound: Mr. Stone was blowing his own tongue. In

There was the sharp sound of a cup set down. Then, out of a rustling of papers, a sort of droning rose:

"'The Proletariatwith a cynicism natural to those who really are in want, and even amongst their leaders

only veiled when these attained a certain position in the public eyedesired indeed the wealth and leisure of

their richer neighbours, but in their long night of struggle with existence they had only found the energy to

formulate their pressing needs from day to day. They were a heaving, surging sea of creatures, slowly,

without consciousness or real guidance, rising in long tidal movements to set the limits of the shore a little

farther back, and cast afresh the form of social life; and on its peagreen bosom '" Mr. Stone paused. "She

has copied it wrong," he said; "the word is 'seagreen.' 'And on its seagreen bosom sailed a fleet of silver

cockleshells, wafted by the breath of those not in themselves driven by the wind of need. The voyage of

these silver cockleshells, all heading across each other's bows, was, in fact, the advanced movement of that

time. In the stern of each of these little craft, blowing at the sails, was seated a byproduct of the accepted

Mr. Stone paused, and looked into his cup. There were some grounds in it. He drank them, and went on:

"'The fratricidal principle of the survival of the fittest, which in those days was England's moral teaching, had

made the country one huge butcher's shop. Amongst the carcasses of countless victims there had fattened and

grown purple many butchers, physically strengthened by the smell of blood and sawdust. These had begotten

many children. Following out the laws of Nature providing against surfeit, a proportion of these children

were born with a feeling of distaste for blood and sawdust; many of them, compelled for the purpose of

making money to follow in their fathers' practices, did so unwillingly; some, thanks to their fathers' butchery,

were in a position to abstain from practising; but whether in practice or at leisure, distaste for the scent of

blood and sawdust was the common feature that distinguished them. Qualities hitherto but little known, and

generally despisednot, as we shall see, without some reasonwere developed in them.

Selfconsciousness, aestheticism, a dislike for waste, a hatred of injustice; theseor some one of these,

when coupled with that desire natural to men throughout all ages to accomplish somethingconstituted the

motive forces which enabled them to work their bellows. In practical affairs those who were under the

necessity of labouring were driven, under the then machinery of social life, to the humaner and less exacting

kinds of butchery, such as the Arts, Education, the practice of Religions and Medicine, and the paid

representation of their fellowcreatures. Those not so driven occupied themselves in observing and

complaining of the existing state of thing. Each year saw more of their silver cockleshells putting out from

port, and the cheeks of those who blew the sails more violently distended. Looking back on that pretty

voyage, we see the reason why those ships were doomed never to move, but, seated on the seagreen bosom

of that sea, to heave up and down, heading across each other's bows in the selfsame place for ever. That

reason, in few words, was this: "The man who blew should have been in the sea, not on the ship.'"

The droning ceased. Hilary saw that Mr. Stone was staring fixedly at his sheet of paper, as though the merits

of this last sentence were surprising him. The droning instantly began again: "'In social effort, as in the

physical processes of Nature, there had ever been a single fertilising agentthe mysterious and wonderful

attraction known as Love. To thisthat merging of one being in anotherhad been due all the progressive

variance of form, known by man under the name of Life. It was this merger, this mysterious, unconscious

Love, which was lacking to the windy efforts of those who tried to sail that fleet. They were full of reason,

conscience, horror, full of impatience, contempt, revolt; but they did not love the masses of their fellowmen.

They could not fling themselves into the sea. Their hearts were glowing; but the wind which made them glow

was not the salt and universal zephyr: it was the desert wind of scorn. As with the flowering of the

aloetreeso long awaited, so strange and swift when once it comesman had yet to wait for his delirious

Mr. Stone had finished, and stood gazing at his visitor with eyes that clearly saw beyond him. Hilary could

not meet those eyes; he kept his own fixed on the empty cocoa cup. It was not, in fact, usual for those who

heard Mr. Stone read his manuscript to look him in the face. He stood thus absorbed so long that Hilary rose

at last, and glanced into the saucepan. There was no cocoa in it. Mr. Stone had only made enough for one. He

"You know what happens to the aloe, sir, when it has flowered?" asked Hilary with malice.

"When is self at peace, sir? The individual is surely as immortal as the universal. That is the eternal comedy

Mr. Stone stood a moment looking wistfully at his soninlaw. He laid down the sheet of manuscript. "It is

time for me to do my exercises." So saying, he undid the tasselled cord tied round the middle of his gown.

Divested of his gown and turned towards the window, Mr. Stone was already rising on his toes, his arms were

extended, his palms pressed hard together in the attitude of prayer, his trousers slowly slipping down.

In the corridor upstairs, flooded with moonlight from a window at the end, Hilary stood listening again. The

only sound that came to him was the light snoring of Miranda, who slept in the bathroom, not caring to lie too

near to anyone. He went to his room, and for a long time sat buried in thought; then, opening the side

window, he leaned out. On the trees of the next garden, and the sloping roofs of stables and outhouses, the

moonlight had come down like a flight of milkwhite pigeons; with outspread wings, vibrating faintly as

though yet in motion, they covered everything. Nothing stirred. A clock was striking two. Past that flight of

milkwhite pigeons were black walls as yet unvisited. Then, in the stillness, Hilary seemed to hear, deep and

very faint, the sound as of some monster breathing, or the far beating of muffed drums. From every side of

the pale sleeping town it seemed to come, under the moon's cold glamour. It rose, and fell, and rose, with a

weird, creepy rhythm, like a groaning of the hopeless and hungry. A hansom cab rattled down the High

Street; Hilary strained his ears after the failing clatter of hoofs and bell. They died; there was silence.

Creeping nearer, drumming, throbbing, he heard again the beating of that vast heart. It grew and grew. His

own heart began thumping. Then, emerging from that sinister dumb groan, he distinguished a crunching

sound, and knew that it was no muttering echo of men's struggles, but only the waggons journeying to Covent

Thyme Dallison, in the midst of her busy life, found leisure to record her recollections and ideas in the pages

of old school notebooks. She had no definite purpose in so doing, nor did she desire the solace of luxuriating

in her private feelingsthis she would have scorned as out of date and silly. It was done from the fulness of

youthful energy, and from the desire to express oneself that was "in the air." It was everywhere, that desire:

among her fellowstudents, among her young men friends, in her mother's drawingroom, and her aunt's

studio. Like sentiment and marriage to the Victorian miss, so was this duty to express herself to Thyme; and,

going handinhand with it, the duty to have a good and jolly youth. She never read again the thoughts

which she recorded, she took no care to lock them up, knowing that her liberty, development, and pleasure

were sacred things which no one would dream of touching she kept them stuffed down in a drawer among

her handkerchiefs and ties and blouses, together with the indelible fragment of a pencil.

This journal, naive and slipshod, recorded without order the current impression of things on her mind.

In the early morning of the 4th of May she sat, nightgowned, on the foot of her white bed, with chestnut hair

all fluffy about her neck, eyes bright and cheeks still rosy with sleep, scribbling away and rubbing one bare

foot against the other in the ecstasy of self expression. Now and then, in the middle of a sentence, she would

stop and look out of the window, or stretch herself deliciously, as though life were too full of joy for her to

"I went into grandfather's room yesterday, and stayed while he was dictating to the little model. I do think

grandfather's so splendid. Martin says an enthusiast is worse than useless; people, he says, can't afford to

dabble in ideas or dreams. He calls grandfather's idea paleolithic. I hate him to be laughed at. Martin's so

cocksure. I don't think he'd find many men of eighty who'd bathe in the Serpentine all the year round, and do

his own room, cook his own food, and live on about ninety pounds a year out of his pension of three hundred,

and give all the rest away. Martin says that's unsound, and the 'Book of Universal Brotherhood' rot. I don't

care if it is; it's fine to go on writing it as he does all day. Martin admits that. That's the worst of him: he's so

cool, you can't score him off; he seems to be always criticising you; it makes me wild.... That little model is a

hopeless duffer. I could have taken it all down in half the time. She kept stopping and looking up with that

mouth of hers half open, as if she had all day before her. Grandfather's so absorbed he doesn't notice; he likes

to read the thing over and over, to hear how the words sound. That girl would be no good at any sort of work,

except 'sitting,' I suppose. Aunt B. used to say she sat well. There's something queer about her face; it

reminds me a little of that Botticelli Madonna in the National Gallery, the fullface one; not so much in the

shape as in the expressionalmost stupid, and yet as if things were going to happen to her. Her hands and

arms are pretty, and her feet are smaller than mine. She's two years older than me. I asked her why she went

in for being a model, which is beastly work. She said she was glad to get anything! I asked her why she didn't

go into a shop or into service. She didn't answer at once, and then said she hadn't had any

recommendationsdidn't know where to try; then, all of a sudden, she grew quite sulky, and said she didn't

"She had on a really pretty frock, quite simple and well madeit must have cost three or four pounds. She

"She looked ever so much prettier in it than she used to in her old brown skirt, I thought .... Uncle Hilary

came to dinner last night. We talked of social questions; we always discuss things when he comes. I can't

help liking Uncle Hilary; he has such kind eyes, and he's so gentle that you never lose your temper with him.

Martin calls him weak and unsatisfactory because he's not in touch with life. I should say it was more as if he

couldn't bear to force anyone to do anything; he seems to see both sides of every question, and he's not good

at making up his mind, of course. He's rather like Hamlet might have been, only nobody seems to know now

what Hamlet was really like. I told him what I thought about the lower classes. One can talk to him. I hate

father's way of making feeble little jokes, as if nothing were serious. I said I didn't think it was any use to

dabble; we ought to go to the root of everything. I said that money and class distinctions are two bogeys we

have got to lay. Martin says, when it comes to real dealing with social questions and the poor, all the people

we know are amateurs. He says that we have got to shake ourselves free of all the old sentimental notions,

and just work at putting everything to the test of Health. Father calls Martin a 'Sanitist';, and Uncle Hilary

Thyme paused again. A blackbird in the garden of the Square was uttering a long, low, chuckling trill. She

ran to the window and peeped out. The bird was on a planetree, and, with throat uplifted, was letting

through his yellow beak that delicious piece of self expression. All things he seemed to praisethe sky, the

'You darling!' thought Thyme. With a shudder of delight she dropped her notebook back into the drawer,

That same morning she slipped out quietly at ten o'clock. Her Saturdays were free of classes, but she had to

run the gauntlet of her mother's liking for her company and her father's wish for her to go with him to

For on Saturdays Stephen almost always left the precincts of the Courts before three o'clock. Then, if he

could induce his wife or daughter to accompany him, he liked to get a round or two in preparation for

Sunday, when he always started off at halfpast ten and played all day. If Cecilia and Thyme failed him, he

would go to his club, and keep himself in touch with every kind of social movement by reading the reviews.

Thyme walked along with her head up and a wrinkle in her brow, as though she were absorbed in serious

reflection; if admiring glances were flung at her, she did not seem aware of them. Passing not far from

On a railing, stretching out his long legs and observing the passers by, sat her cousin, Martin Stone. He got

"The Notting Hill district's all we can do today if we're to go again to Mrs. Hughs'. I must be down at the

Thyme frowned. "I do envy you living by yourself, Martin. It's silly having to live at home."

Martin did not answer, but one nostril of his long nose was seen to curve, and Thyme acquiesced in this

without remark. They walked for some minutes between tall houses, looking about them calmly. Then Martin

Thyme nodded. Again there was silence; but in these pauses there was no embarrassment, no consciousness

apparently that it was silence, and their eyesthose young, impatient, interested eyeswere for ever busy

They were passing down a long, grey, curving road, whose narrow houses, hopelessly unpainted, showed

marks of grinding poverty. The Spring wind was ruffling straw and little bits of paper in the gutters; under the

Martin nodded. " Worse than the real article. There's half a mile of this. Here it's all grim fighting. Farther on

And still they went on up the curving street, with its few pinched shops and its unending narrow grimness.

"They do make me feel soit's a shame to take yours," and she took the handkerchief.

The houses of this narrow street, inside and out, seemed full of women. Many of them had babies in their

arms; they were working or looking out of windows or gossiping on doorsteps. And all stopped to stare as the

young couple passed. Thyme stole a look at her companion. His long stride had not varied; there was the

usual pale, observant, sarcastic expression on his face. Clenching the handkerchief in readiness, and trying to

imitate his callous air, she looked at a group of five women on the nearest doorstep.

Three were seated and two were standing. One of these, a young woman with a round, open face, was clearly

very soon to have a child; the other, with a short, dark face and irongrey, straggling hair, was smoking a

clay pipe. Of the three seated, one, quite young, had a face as grey white as a dirty sheet, and a blackened

eye; the second, with her ragged dress disarranged, was nursing a baby; the third, in the centre, on the top

step, with red arms akimbo, her face scored with drink, was shouting friendly obscenities to a neighbour in

the window opposite. In Thyme's heart rose the passionate feeling, 'How disgusting! how disgusting!' and

since she did not dare to give expression to it, she bit her lips and turned her head from them, resenting, with

all a young girl's horror, that her sex had given her away. 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. With contemptuous movements of their lips and bodies, on that doorstep they proclaimed their

emphatic belief in the virtue and reality of their own existences and in the vice and unreality of her intruding

"Give the doll to Bill; 'e'd make 'er work for once, the" In a burst of laughter the epithet was lost.

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.

Nodding coolly, Martin motioned them aside. The shop was ten feet square; its counters, running parallel to

two of the walls, were covered with plates of cake, sausages, old hambones, peppermint sweets, and

household soap; there was also bread, margarine, suet in bowls, sugar, bloatersmany bloatersCaptain's

biscuits, and other things besides. Two or three dead rabbits hung against the wall. All was uncovered, so that

what flies there were sat feeding socialistically. Behind the counter a girl of seventeen was serving a

thinfaced woman with portions of a cheese which she was holding down with her strong, dirty hand, while

she sawed it with a knife. On the counter, next the cheese, sat a quietlooking cat.

"Finish what you're at," said Martin, "then give me three pennyworth of bull'seyes."

The girl, with a violent effort, finished severing the cheese. The thinfaced woman took it, and, coughing

above it, went away. The girl, who could not take her eyes off Thyme, now served them with three

pennyworth of bull'seyes, which she took out with her fingers, for they had stuck. Putting them in a screw of

newspaper, she handed them to Martin. The young man, who had been observing negligently, touched

Thyme's elbow. She, who had stood with eyes cast down, now turned. They went out, Martin handing the

"Black," said Martin, "here; all down this roadcasual labour, criminals, loafers, drunkards, consumps. Look

Thyme raised her eyes obediently. In this main thoroughfare it was not as in the bystreet, and only dull or

sullen glances, or none at all, were bent on her. Some of the houses had ragged plants on the windowsills; in

one window a canary was singing. Then, at a bend, they came into a blacker reach of human river. Here were

outbuildings, houses with broken windows, houses with windows boarded up, friedfish shops, low

publichouses, houses without doors. There were more men here than women, and those men were wheeling

barrows full of rags and bottles, or not even full of rags and bottles; or they were standing by the

publichouses gossiping or quarrelling in groups of three or four; or very slowly walking in the gutters, or on

the pavements, as though trying to remember if they were alive. Then suddenly some young man with gaunt

violence in his face would pass, pushing his barrow desperately, striding fiercely by. And every now and

then, from a friedfish or hardware shop, would come out a man in a dirty apron to take the sun and

contemplate the scene, not finding in it, seemingly, anything that in any way depressed his spirit. Amongst

the constant, crawling, shifting stream of passengers were seen women carrying food wrapped up in

newspaper, or with bundles beneath their shawls. The faces of these women were generally either very red

and coarse or of a sort of bluishwhite; they wore the expression of such as know themselves to be existing in

the way that Providence has arranged they should exist. No surprise, revolt, dismay, or shame was ever to be

seen on those faces; in place of these emotions a drab and brutish acquiescence or mechanical coarse

jocularity. To pass like this about their business was their occupation each morning of the year; it was needful

to accept it. Not having any hope of ever, being different, not being able to imagine any other life, they were

not so wasteful of their strength as to attempt either to hope or to imagine. Here and there, too, very slowly

passed old men and women, crawling along, like winter bees who, in some strange and evil moment, had

forgotten to die in the sunlight of their toil, and, too old to be of use, had been chivied forth from their hive to

Down the centre of the street Thyme saw a brewer's dray creeping its way due south under the sun. Three

horses drew it, with braided tails and beribboned manes, the brass glittering on their harness. High up, like a

god, sat the drayman, his little slits of eyes above huge red cheeks fixed immovably on his horses' crests.

Behind him, with slow, unceasing crunch, the dray rolled, piled up with hogsheads, whereon the drayman's

mate lay sleeping. Like the slumbrous image of some mighty unrelenting Power, it passed, proud that its

monstrous bulk contained all the joy and blessing those shadows on the pavement had ever known.

"Cross here," said Martin, "and cut down into Kensington. Nothing more of interest now till we get to Hound

"O Martin, let's go down a road where there's some air. I feel so dirty." She put her hand up to her chest.

They turned to the left into a road that had many trees. Now that she could breathe and look about her, Thyme

The young doctor did not reply; his face still wore its pale, sarcastic, observant look. He gave her arm a

Arriving in Hound Street, Martin Stone and his companion went straight up to Mrs. Hughs' front room. They

found her doing the week's washing, and hanging out before a scanty fire part of the little that the week had

been suffered to soil. Her arms were bare, her face and eyes red; the steam of soapsuds had congealed on

Attached to the bolster by a towel, under his father's bayonet and the oleograph depicting the Nativity, sat the

baby. In the air there was the scent of him, of walls, and washing, and red herrings. The two young people

The seamstress, muffing her arms with the garment she was dipping in soapy water, did not answer.

"Of course not." He laid a sixpence on the sill. "Get some and rub it in. Mind you don't break the skin."

Thyme suddenly burst out: "Why don't you leave him, Mrs. Hughs? Why do you live with a brute like that?"

Mrs. Hughs turned her face to the scanty fire. Her shoulders heaved spasmodically.

"If you don't mind, I'll smoke," said Martin. "What's your baby's name? Bill? Here, Bill!" He placed his little

Martin tapped his pipe against his forehead. "Least drop of liquor goes to it, I suppose?"

Mrs. Hughs paused in the dipping of a cloth; her tearstained face expressed resentment, as though she had

All three now stood round the bed, over which the baby presided with solemn gaze.

Thyme said: "I wouldn't care what he did, Mrs. Hughs; I wouldn't stay another day if I were you. It's your

To hear her duty as a woman Mrs. Hughs turned; slow vindictiveness gathered on her thin face.

"Take the children and go. What's the good of waiting? We'll give you money if you haven't got enough."

Thyme burst out again: "Just go, the very minute your little boy comes back from school. Hughs 'll never find

you. It 'll serve him right. No woman ought to put up with what you have; it's simply weakness, Mrs. Hughs."

As though that word had forced its way into her very heart and set the blood free suddenly, Mrs. Hughs' face

"And leave him to that young girland leave him to his wickedness! After I've been his wife eight years and

borne him five! after I've done what I have for him! I never want no better husband than what he used to be,

till she came with her pale face and her prinky manners, andand her mouth that you can tell she's bad by.

Let her keep to her professionsitting naked's what she's fit forcoming here to decent folk" And

holding out her wrists to Thyme, who had shrunk back, she cried: "He's never struck me before. I got these all

Hearing his mother speak with such strange passion, the baby howled. Mrs. Hughs stopped, and took him up.

Pressing him close to her thin bosom, she looked above his little dingy head at the two young people.

"I got my wrists like this last night, wrestling with him. He swore he'd go and leave me, but I held him, I did.

And don't you ever think that I'll let him go to that young girlnot if he kills me first!"

With those words the passion in her face died down. She was again a meek, mute woman.

During this outbreak, Thyme, shrinking, stood by the doorway with lowered eyes. She now looked up at

Martin, clearly asking him to come away. The latter had kept his gaze fixed on Mrs. Hughs, smoking silently.

In silence all three bent their eyes on the baby. His little fists, and nose, and forehead, even his little naked,

crinkled feet, were thrust with all his feeble strength against his mother's bosom, as though he were striving to

creep into some hole away from life. There was a sort of dumb despair in that tiny pushing of his way back to

the place whence he had come. His head, covered with dingy down, quivered with his effort to escape. He

had been alive so little; that little had sufficed. Martin put his pipe back into his mouth.

"This won't do, you know," he said. "He can't stand it. And look here! If you stop feeding him, I wouldn't

give that for him tomorrow!" He held up the circle of his thumb and finger. "You're the best judge of what

sort of chance you've got of going on in your present state of mind!" Then, motioning to Thyme, he went

Spring was in the hearts of men, and their tall companions, trees. Their troubles, the stiflings of each other's

growth, and all such things, seemed of little moment. Spring had them by the throat. It turned old men round,

and made them stare at women younger than themselves. It made young men and women walking side by

side touch each other, and every bird on the branches tune his pipe. Flying sunlight speckled the fluttered

leaves, and gushed the cheeks of crippled boys who limped into the Gardens, till their pale Cockney faces

In the Broad Walk, beneath those dangerous trees, the elms, people sat and took the suncheek by jowl,

generals and nursemaids, parsons and the unemployed. Above, in that Spring wind, the elmtree boughs were

swaying, rustling, creaking ever so gently, carrying on the innumerable talk of treestheir sapient, wordless

conversation over the affairs of men. It was pleasant, too, to see and hear the myriad movement of the million

little separate leaves, each shaped differently, flighting never twice alike, yet all obedient to the single spirit

Thyme and Martin were sitting on a seat beneath the largest of all the elms. Their manner lacked the

unconcern and dignity of the moment, when, two hours before, they had started forth on their discovery from

"It's given you the hump! First sight of blood, and you're like all the rest of them!"

"Oh yes, you are. There's plenty of aestheticism about you and your peopleplenty of good intentionsbut

"Oh, they're kind enough, and they can see what's wrong. It's not that which stops them. But your dad's a

regular official. He's got so much sense of what he ought not to do that he never does anything; Just as

Hilary's got so much consciousness of what he ought to do that be never does anything. You went to that

woman's this morning with your ideas of helping her all cut and dried, and now that you find the facts aren't

"One can't believe anything they say. That's what I hate. I thought Hughs simply knocked her about. I didn't

"Of course you didn't. Do you imagine those people give anything away to our sort unless they're forced?

"Well, it is! I don't feel that I want to help a woman who can say and feel such horrid things, or the girl, or

"Who cares what they say or feel? that's not the point. It's simply a case of common sense: Your people put

that girl there, and they must get her to clear out again sharp. It's just a question of what's healthy."

"Well, I know it's not healthy for me to have anything to do with, and I won't! I don't believe you can help

He dropped his hand on hers. Her face had flushed rose colour. Suddenly she freed herself. "Here's Uncle

It was indeed Hilary, with Miranda, trotting in advance. His hands were crossed behind him, his face bent

"Buried in selfcontemplation," murmured Martin; "that's the way he always walks. I shall tell him about

"Wellthose new" She could not bring out that word "clothes." It would have given her thoughts away.

Hilary seemed making for their seat, but Miranda, aware of Martin, stopped. "A man of action!" she appeared

to say. "The one who pulls my ears." And turning, as though unconscious, she endeavoured to lead Hilary

away. Her master, however, had already seen his niece. He came and sat down on the bench beside her.

"We wanted you!" said Martin, eyeing him slowly, as a young dog will eye another of a different age and

breed. "Thyme and I have been to see the Hughs in Hound Street. Things are blowing up for a mess. You, or

Thyme murmured: "I don't see a bit why Uncle Hilary should bother. If they will be so horridI didn't think

the poor were like that. I didn't think they had it in them. I'm sure the girl isn't worth it, or the woman either!"

"Ah, your precious delicacy! What's the good of that? What did it ever do? It's the curse that you're all

"Look here!" he said; "I don't go in for your subtleties. I use my eyes and nose. I can see that the woman will

never be able to go on feeding the baby in the neurotic state she's in. It's a matter of health for both of them."

"It is. Take any subject that you like. Take the poor themselves what's wanted? Health. Nothing on earth but

health! The discoveries and inventions of the last century have knocked the floor out of the old order; we've

got to put a new one in, and we're going to put it in, toothe floor of health. The crowd doesn't yet see what

it wants, but they're looking for it, and when we show it them they'll catch on fast enough."

"Who are we? I'll tell you one thing. While all the reformers are pecking at each other we shall quietly come

along and swallow up the lot. We've simply grasped this elementary fact, that theories are no basis for

reform. We go on the evidence of our eyes and noses; what we see and smell is wrong we correct by practical

"Yes," said Hilary, "take her case. You can't make this too clear to me, Martin."

"She's no usepoor sort altogether. The man's no use. A man who's been wounded in the head, and isn't a

Thyme flushed crimson, and, seeing that flood of colour in his niece's face, Hilary bit his lips.

"The only things worth considering are the children. There's this babywell, as I said, the important thing is

that the mother should be able to look after it properly. Get hold of that, and let the other facts go hang."

"Forgive me, but my difficulty is to isolate this question of the baby's health from all the other circumstances

The young man turned on her a look that said: 'It's no use calling me a brute; I'm proud of being one. Besides,

The two young people, both on their feet now, looked after him. Martin's face was a queer study of

"I hate you sometimes," she said. "You're so coarsegrainedyour skin's just like leather."

Martin made a queer movement of his jaw, then smiled. That smile seemed to madden Thyme. She wrenched

Martin impassively looked after her. Taking out his pipe, he filled it with tobacco, slowly pressing the golden

If has been said that Stephen Dallison, when unable to get his golf on Saturdays, went to his club, and read

reviews. The two forms of exercise, in fact, were very similar: in playing golf you went round and round; in

reading reviews you did the same, for in course of time you were assured of coming to articles that, nullified

articles already read. In both forms of sport the balance was preserved which keeps a man both sound and

And to be both sound and young was to Stephen an everyday necessity. He was essentially a Cambridge man,

springy and undemonstrative, with just that air of taking a continual pinch of really perfect snuff. Underneath

this manner he was a good worker, a good husband, a good father, and nothing could be urged against him

except his regularity and the fact that he was never in the wrong. Where he worked, and indeed in other

places, many men were like him. In one respect he resembled them, perhaps, too muchhe disliked leaving

He and Cecilia had "got on" from the first. They had both desired to have one childno more; they had both

desired to keep up with the timesno more; they now both considered Hilary's position awkward no

more; and when Cecilia, in the special Jacobean bed, and taking care to let him have his sleep out first, had

told him of this matter of the Hughs, they had both turned it over very carefully, lying on their backs, and

speaking in grave tones. Stephen was of opinion that poor old Hilary must look out what he was doing.

Beyond this he did not go, keeping even from his wife the more unpleasant of what seemed to him the

These speeches, so simultaneous, stimulated them to a robuster view. What was this affair, if real, but the sort

of episode that they read of in their papers? What was it, if true, but a duplicate of some bit of fiction or

drama which they daily saw described by that word "sordid"? Cecilia, indeed, had used this word

instinctively. It had come into her mind at once. The whole affair disturbed her ideals of virtue and good

tastethat particular mental atmosphere mysteriously, inevitably woven round the soul by the conditions of

special breeding and special life. If, then, this affair were real it was sordid, and if it were sordid it was

repellent to suppose that her family could be mixed up in it; but her people were mixed up in it, therefore it

So the matter rested until Thyme came back from her visit to her grandfather, and told them of the little

model's new and pretty clothes. When she detailed this news they were all sitting at dinner, over the ordering

of which Cecilia's loyalty had been taxed till her little headache came, so that there might be nothing too

conventional to overnourish Stephen or so essentially aesthetic as not to nourish him at all. The man servant

being in the room, they neither of them raised their eyes. But when he was gone to fetch the bird, each found

the other looking furtively across the table. By some queer misfortune the word "sordid" had leaped into their

minds again. Who had given her those clothes? But feeling that it was sordid to pursue this thought, they

looked away, and, eating hastily, began pursuing it. Being man and woman, they naturally took a different

'If old Hilary has been giving her money and clothes and that sort of thing, he's either a greater duffer than I

took him for, or there's something in it. B.'s got herself to thank, but that won't help to keep Hughs quiet. He

'I know the girl can't have bought those things out of her proper earnings. I believe she's a really bad lot. I

don't like to think it, but it must be so. Hilary can't have been so stupid after what I said to him. If she really is

bad, it simplifies things very much; but Hilary is just the sort of man who will never believe it. Oh dear!'

It was, to be quite fair, immensely difficult for Stephen and his wifeor any of their class and circlein

spite of genuinely good intentions, to really feel the existence of their "shadows," except in so far as they saw

them on the pavements. They knew that these people lived, because they saw them, but they did not feel

itwith such extraordinary care had the web of social life been spun. They were, and were bound to be, as

utterly divorced from understanding of, or faith in, all that shadowy life, as those "shadows" in their

bystreets were from knowledge or belief that gentlefolk really existed except in so far as they had money

Stephen and Cecilia, and their thousands, knew these "shadows" as "the people," knew them as slums, as

districts, as sweated industries, of different sorts of workers, knew them in the capacity of persons performing

odd jobs for them; but as human beings possessing the same faculties and passions with themselves, they did

not, could not, know them. The reason, the long reason, extending back through generations, was so plain, so

very simple, that it was never mentionedin their heart of hearts, where there was no room for cant, they

knew it to be just a little matter of the senses. They knew that, whatever they might say, whatever money they

might give, or time devote, their hearts could never open, unlessunless they closed their ears, and eyes, and

noses. This little fact, more potent than all the teaching of philosophers, than every Act of Parliament, and all

the sermons ever preached, reigned paramount, supreme. It divided class from class, man from his

On this little fact, too gross to mention, they and their kind had in secret built and built, till it was not too

much to say that laws, worship, trade, and every art were based on it, if not in theory, then in fact. For it must

not be thought that those eyes were dull or that nose plainno, no, those eyes could put two and two

together; that nose, of myriad fancy, could imagine countless things unsmelled which must lie behind a state

of life not quite its own. It could create, as from the scent of an old slipper dogs create their masters.

So Stephen and Cecilia sat, and their butler brought in the bird. It was a nice one, nourished down in Surrey,

and as he cut it into portions the butler's soul turned sick within himnot because he wanted some himself,

or was a vegetarian, or for any sort of principle, but because he was by natural gifts an engineer, and deadly

tired of cutting up and handing birds to other people and watching while they ate them. Without a glimmer of

expression on his face he put the portions down before the persons who, having paid him to do so, could not

That same night, after working at a Report on the present Laws of Bankruptcy, which he was then drawing

up, Stephen entered the joint apartment with excessive caution, having first made all his dispositions, and,

stealing to the bed, slipped into it. He lay there, offering himself congratulations that he had not awakened

Cecilia, and Cecilia, who was wide awake, knew by his unwonted carefulness that he had come to some

conclusion which he did not wish to impart to her. Devoured, therefore, by disquiet, she lay sleepless till the

The conclusion to which Stephen had come was this: Having twice gone through the factsHilary's

corporeal separation from Bianca (communicated to him by Cecilia), cause unknowable; Hilary's interest in

the little model, cause unknown; her known poverty; her employment by Mr. Stone; her tenancy of Mrs.

Hughs' room; the latter's outburst to Cecilia; Hughs' threat; and, finally, the girl's pretty clothes he had

summed it up as just a common "plant," to which his brother's possibly innocent, but in any case imprudent,

conduct had laid him open. It was a man's affair. He resolutely tried to look on the whole thing as unworthy

of attention, to feel that nothing would occur. He failed dismally, for three reasons. First, his inherent love of

regularity, of having everything in proper order; secondly, his ingrained mistrust of and aversion from

Bianca; thirdly, his unavowed conviction, for all his wish to be sympathetic to them, that the lower classes

always wanted something out of you. It was a question of how much they would want, and whether it were

wise to give them anything. He decided that it would not be wise at all. What then? Impossible to say. It

worried him. He had a natural horror of any sort of scandal, and he was very fond of Hilary. If only he knew

Thus, on that Saturday afternoon, the 4th of May, he felt for once such a positive aversion from the reading of

reviews, as men will feel from their usual occupations when their nerves have been disturbed. He stayed late

The tide of life was flowing in the town. The streets were awash with wave on wave of humanity, sucked into

a thousand crossing currents. Here men and women were streaming out from the meeting of a religious

congress, there streaming in at the gates of some social function; like bright water confined within long

shelves of rock and dyed with myriad scales of shifting colour, they thronged Rotten Row, and along the

closed shopfronts were woven into an inextricable network of little human runlets. And everywhere

amongst this sea of men and women could be seen their shadows, meandering like streaks of grey slime

stirred up from the lower depths by some huge, never ceasing finger. The innumerable roar of that human

sea climbed out above the roofs and trees, and somewhere in illimitable space blended, and slowly reached

the meetingpoint of sound and silence that Heart where Life, leaving its little forms and barriers, clasps

Above this crowd of his fellowcreatures, Stephen drove, and the same Spring wind which had made the

elmtrees talk, whispered to him, and tried to tell him of the million flowers it had fertilised, the million

leaves uncurled, the million ripples it had awakened on the sea, of the million flying shadows flung by it

across the Downs, and how into men's hearts its scent had driven a million longings and sweet pains.

It was but moderately successful, for Stephen, like all men of culture and neat habits, took Nature only at

those moments when he had gone out to take her, and of her wild heart he had a secret fear.

"I ran across Thyme and Martin in the Gardens," the latter said. "Thyme brought me back to lunch, and here

"Good! That young man gets on my nerves." Taking his elder brother by the arm, he added: "Will you come

Though different enough, perhaps because they were so different, these two brothers had the real affection for

each other which depends on something deeper and more elementary than a similarity of sentiments, and is

It depended on the countless times they had kissed and wrestled as tiny boys, slept in small beds alongside,

refusedto "tell" about each other, and even now and then taken up the burden of each other's peccadilloes.

They might get irritated or tired of being in each other's company, but it would have been impossible for

either to have been disloyal to the other in any circumstances, because of that traditional loyalty which went

Preceded by Miranda, they walked along the flower walk towards the Park, talking of indifferent things,

"Cis has been telling me," he said, "that this man Hughs is making trouble of some sort."

Stephen glanced a little anxiously at his brother's face; it struck him as looking different, neither so gentle nor

"He must be, old chap," murmured Stephen. Then, with a friendly pressure of his brother's arm, he added:

Stephen took a hasty mental view of his position; he had been in danger of letting Hilary see that he

suspected him. Frowning slightly, and with some colour in his cleanshaven face, he said:

"No," said Hilary, "there's nothing in it, though what there may be if people give me credit for what there

Stephen digested this remark, which hurt him. He saw that his suspicions had been fathomed, and this injured

They were crossing the bridge over the Serpentine. On the bright waters, below, young clerks were sculling

their inamoratas up and down; the ripples set free by their oars gleamed beneath the sun, and ducks swam

"Look here, Stephen, I take an interest in this childshe's a helpless sort of little creature, and she seems to

have put herself under my protection. I can't help that. But that's all. Do you understand?"

This speech produced a queer turmoil in Stephen, as though his brother had accused him of a petty view of

"Oh, of course I understand, old boy! But don't think, anyway, that I should care a damnI mean as far as

I'm concernedeven if you had gone as far as ever you liked, considering what you have to put up with.

By this clear statement of his point of view Stephen felt he had put things back on a broad basis, and

recovered his position as a man of liberal thought. He too leaned over, looking at the ducks. There was a

Stephen looked at his brother in surprise, amounting almost to dismay; he had spoken with such unwonted

"I'll tell you exactly how the thing appeals to me. It'll be much better for you to chuck it altogether. Let Cis

"That's exactly what makes it difficult for you to look at it all round. That fellow Hughs could make himself

quite nasty. I wouldn't give him any sort of chance. I mean to saygiving the girl clothes and that kind of

"You know, old man," Stephen went on hastily, "I don't think you'll get Bianca to look at things in your light.

If you were onon terms, of course it would be different. I mean the girl, you know, is rather attractive in

Hilary roused himself from contemplation of the ducks, and they moved on towards the Powder Magazine.

Stephen carefully abstained from looking at his brother; the respect he had for Hilaryresult, perhaps, of the

latter's seniority, perhaps of the feeling that Hilary knew more of him than he of Hilarywas beginning to

assert itself in a way he did not like. With every word, too, of this talk, the ground, instead of growing firmer,

Hilary laughed. Hearing that rather bitter laugh, Stephen felt a little ache about his heart.

The whizz of a motorcar rapidly approaching them became a sort of roar, and out of it a voice shouted:

"How are you?" A hand was seen to rise in salute. It was Mr. Purcey driving his A.i. Damyer back to

Wimbledon. Before him in the sunlight a little shadow fled; behind him the reek of petrol seemed to darken

"How do you mean?" said Stephen dryly. The word "symbol" was distasteful to him.

"The machine in the middle moving on its business; shadows like you and me skipping in front; oil and

Stephen took time to answer. "That's rather farfetched," he said. "You mean these Hughs and people are the

"Quite so," was Hilary's sardonic answer. "There's the body of that fellow and his car between our sort and

"Well, who wants to? If you're thinking of our old friend's Fraternity, I'm not taking any." And Stephen

"You see that Powder Magazine?" said Hilary. "Well, this business that you call a 'plant' is more like that. I

don't want to alarm you, but I think you as well as our young friend Martin, are inclined to underrate the

Disquietude broke up the customary mask on Stephen's face: "I don't understand," he stammered.

"Well, we're none of us machines, not even amateurs like menot even underdogs like Hughs. I fancy you

may find a certain warmth, not to say violence, about this business. I tell you frankly that I don't live in

married celibacy quite with impunity. I can't answer for anything, in fact. You had better stand clear,

Stephen marked his thin hands quivering, and this alarmed him as nothing else had done.

They walked on beside the water. Stephen spoke quietly, looking at the ground. "How can I stand clear, old

He saw at once that this shot, which indeed was from his heart, had gone right home to Hilary's. He sought

"You mean a lot to us," he said. "Cis and Thyme would feel it awfully if you and B." He stopped.

Hilary was looking at him; that faintly smiling glance, searching him through and through, suddenly made

Stephen feel inferior. He had been detected trying to extract capital from the effect of his little piece of

"I have no right to give advice, I suppose," he said; "but in my opinion you should drop itdrop it dead. The

girl is not worth your looking after. Turn her over to that SocietyMrs. Tallents Smallpeace's thing

At a sound as of mirth Stephen, who was not accustomed to hear his brother laugh, looked round.

"Martin," said Hilary, "also wants the case to be treated on strictly hygienic grounds."

"Don't confound me with our young Sanitist, please; I simply think there are probably a hundred things you

"You call that coldblooded, I suppose; but I think, you know, old chap, that you're too sensitive."

"If you don't mind, Stevie," he said, "we'll part here. I want to think it over." So saying, he turned back, and

Hilary sat long in the sun, watching the pale bright waters and many wellbred ducks circling about the

shrubs, searching with their round, bright eyes for worms. Between the bench where he was sitting and the

spiked iron railings people passed continuallymen, women, children of all kinds. Every now and then a

duck would stop and cast her knowing glance at these creatures, as though comparing the condition of their

forms and plumage with her own. 'If I had had the breeding of you,' she seemed to say, 'I could have made a

better fist of it than that. A worselooking lot of ducks, take you all round. I never wish to see!' And with a

quick but heavy movement of her shoulders, she would turn away and join her fellows.

Hilary, however, got small distraction from the ducks. The situation gradually developing was something of a

dilemma to a man better acquainted with ideas than facts, with the trimming of words than with the shaping

of events. He turned a queer, perplexed, almost quizzical eye on it. Stephen had irritated him profoundly. He

had such a way of pettifying things! Yet, in truth, the affair would seem ridiculous enough to an ordinary

observer. What would a man of sound common sense, like Mr. Purcey, think of it? Why not, as Stephen had

suggested, drop it? Here, however, Hilary approached the marshy ground of feeling.

To give up befriending a helpless girl the moment he found himself personally menaced was exceedingly

distasteful. But would she be friendless? Were there not, in Stephen's words, a hundred things he did not

know about her? Had she not other resources? Had she not a story? But here, too, he was hampered by his

The matter, too, was hopelessly complicated by the domestic troubles of the Hughs family. No conscientious

manand whatever Hilary lacked, no one ever accused him of a lack of consciencecould put aside that

Wandering among these reflections were his thoughts about Bianca. She was his wife. However he might feel

towards her now, whatever their relations, he must not put her in a false position. Far from wishing to hurt

her, he desired to preserve her, and everyone, from trouble and annoyance. He had told Stephen that his

interest in the girl was purely protective. But since the night when, leaning out into the moonlight, he heard

the waggons coming in to Covent Garden Market, a strange feeling had possessed himthe sensation of a

man who lies, with a touch of fever on him, listening to the thrum of distant musicsensuous, not

Those who saw him sitting there so quietly, with his face resting on his hand, imagined, no doubt, that he was

wrestling with some deep, abstract proposition, some great thought to be given to mankind; for there was that

about Hilary which forced everyone to connect him instantly with the humaner arts.

A nursemaid and two children came and sat down beside him. Then it was that, underneath his seat, Miranda

found what she had been looking for all her life. It had no smell, made no movement, was palegrey in

colour, like herself. It had no hair that she could find; its tail was like her own; it took no liberties, was silent,

had no passions, committed her to nothing. Standing a few inches from its head, closer than she had ever

been of her free will to any dog, she smelt its smellessness with a long, delicious snuffling, wrinkling up the

skin on her forehead, and through her upturned eyes her little moonlight soul looked forth. 'How unlike you

are,' she seemed to say, 'to all the other dogs I know! I would love to live with you. Shall I ever find a dog

like you again? "The latest sterilised clothsee white label underneath: 4s. 3d.!"' Suddenly she slithered

out her slender greypink tongue and licked its nose. The creature moved a little way and stopped. Miranda

saw that it had wheels. She lay down close to it, for she knew it was the perfect dog.

Hilary watched the little moonlight lady lying vigilant, affectionate, beside this perfect dog, who could not

hurt her. She panted slightly, and her tongue showed between her lips. Presently behind his seat he saw

another idyll. A thin white spaniel had come running up. She lay down in the grass quite close, and three

other dogs who followed, sat and looked at her. A poor, dirty little thing she was, who seemed as if she had

not seen a home for days. Her tongue lolled out, she panted piteously, and had no collar. Every now and then

she turned her eyes, but though they were so tired and desperate, there was a gleam in them. 'For all its thirst

and hunger and exhaustion, this is life!' they seemed to say. The three dogs, panting too, and watching till it

should be her pleasure to begin to run again, seemed with their moist, loving eyes to echo: 'This is life!'

And suddenly the thin white spaniel rose, and, like a little harried ghost, slipped on amongst the trees, and the

In her studio that afternoon Blanca stood before her picture of the little modelthe figure with parted

She was frowning, as though resentful of a piece of work which had the power to kill her other pictures. What

force had moved her to paint like that? What had she felt while the girl was standing before her, still as some

pale flower placed in a cup of water? Not lovethere was no love in the presentment of that twilight figure;

not hatethere was no hate in the painting of her dim appeal. Yet in the picture of this shadow girl, between

the gloom and glimmer, was visible a spirit, driving the artist on to create that which had the power to haunt

Blanca turned away and went up to a portrait of her husband, painted ten years before. She looked from one

In the more poignant relationships of human life there is a point beyond which men and women do not quite

truthfully analyse their feelingsthey feel too much. It was Blanca's fortune, too, to be endowed to excess

with that quality which, of all others, most obscures the real significance of human issues. Her pride had kept

her back from Hilary, till she had felt herself a failure. Her pride had so revolted at that failure that she had

led the way to utter estrangement. Her pride had forced her to the attitude of one who says "Live your own

life; I should be ashamed to let you see that I care what happens between us." Her pride had concealed from

her the fact that beneath her veil of mocking liberality there was an essential woman tenacious of her dues,

avid of affection and esteem. Her pride prevented the world from guessing that there was anything amiss. Her

pride even prevented Hilary from really knowing what had spoiled his married lifethis ungovernable itch

to be appreciated, governed by ungovernable pride. Hundreds of times he had been baffled by the hedge

round that disharmonic nature. With each failure something had shrivelled in him, till the very roots of his

affection had dried up. She had worn out a man who, to judge from his actions and appearance, was naturally

longsuffering to a fault. Beneath all manner of kindness and consideration for each otherfor their good

taste, at all events, had never given waythis tragedy of a woman, who wanted to be loved, slowly killing

the power of loving her in the man, had gone on year after year. It had ceased to be tragedy, as far as Hilary

was concerned; the nerve of his love for her was quite dead, slowly frozen out of him. It was still active

tragedy with Bianca, the nerve of whose jealous desire for his appreciation was not dead. Her instinct, too,

ironically informed her that, had he been a man with some brutality, a man who had set himself to ride and

master her, instead of one too delicate, he might have trampled down the hedge. This gave her a secret grudge

Pride was Bianca's fate, her flavour, and her charm. Like a shadowy hillside behind glamorous bars of

waning sunlight, she was enveloped in smiling pridemysterious; one thinks, even to herself. This pride of

hers took part even in her many generous impulses, kind actions which she did rather secretly and scoffed at

herself for doing. She scoffed at herself continually, even for putting on dresses of colours which Hilary was

Standing between those two pictures, pressing her mahlstick against her bosom, she suggested somewhat

That other person, who had once brought the thought of Italy into Cecilia's mindthe man Hughshad

been for the last eight hours or so walking the streets, placing in a cart the refuses of Life; nor had he at all

suggested the aspect of one tortured by the passions of love and hate: For the first two hours he had led the

horse without expression of any sort on his dark face, his neat soldier's figure garbed in the costume which

had made "Westminister" describe him as a "dreadful foreignlookin' man." Now and then he had spoken to

the horse; save for those speeches, of no great importance, he had been silent. For the next two hours,

following the cart, he had used a shovel, and still his square, short face, with little black moustache and still

blacker eyes, had given no sign of conflict in his breast. So he had passed the day. Apart from the fact,

indeed, that men of any kind are not too given to expose private passions to public gaze, the circumstances of

a life devoted from the age of twenty onwards to the service of his country, first as a soldier, now in the more

defensive part of Vestry scavenger, had given him a kind of gravity. Life had cloaked him with

passivitythe normal look of men whose bread and cheese depends on their not caring much for anything.

Had Hughs allowed his inclinations play, or sought to express himself, he could hardly have been a private

soldier; still less, on his retirement from that office with an honourable wound, would he have been selected

out of many others as a Vestry scavenger. For such an occupation as the lifting from the streets of the refuses

of Lifea calling greatly sought after, and, indeed, one of the few open to a man who had served his

countrycharm of manner, individuality, or the engaging quality of selfexpression, were perhaps out of

He had never been trained in the voicing of his thoughts, and, ever since he had been wounded, felt at times a

kind of desperate looseness in his head. It was not, therefore, remarkable that he should be liable to

misconstruction, more especially by those who had nothing in common with him, except that somewhat

negligible factor, common humanity. The Dallisons had misconstrued him as much as, but no more than, he

had misconstrued them when, as "Westminister" had informed Hilary, he "went on against the gentry." He

was, in fact, a ragged screen, a broken vessel, that let light through its holes. A glass or two of beer, the fumes

of which his wounded head no longer dominated, and he at once became "dreadful foreign." Unfortunately, it

was his custom, on finishing his work, to call at the "Green Glory." On this particular afternoon the glass had

become three, and in sallying forth he had felt a confused sense of duty urging him to visit the house where

this girl for whom he had conceived his strange infatuation "carried on her games." The "notalebearing"

tradition of a soldier fought hard with this sense of duty; his feelings were mixed when he rang the bell and

asked for Mrs. Dallison. Habit, however, masked his face, and he stood before her at "attention," his black

"I've come," he began at last in a dogged voice, "to let you know. I never wanted to come into this house. I

Blanca could see his lips and eyelids quivering in a way strangely out of keeping with his general stolidity.

"My wife has told you tales of me, I suppose. She's told you I knock her about, I daresay. I don't care what

she tells you or any o' the people that she works for. But this I'll say: I never touched her but she touched me

first. Look here! that's marks of hers!" and, drawing up his sleeve he showed a scratch on his sinewy tattooed

Bianca turned towards her pictures. "Well?" she said, "but what have you come about, please? You see I'm

Hughs' face changed. Its stolidity vanished, the eyes became as quick, passionate, and leaping as a dark

torrent. He was more violently alive than she had ever seen a man. Had it been a woman she would have

feltas Cecilia had felt with Mrs. Hughsthe indecency, the impudence of this exhibition; but from that

male violence the feminine in her derived a certain satisfaction. So in Spring, when all seems lowering and

grey, the hedges and trees suddenly flare out against the purple clouds, their twigs all in flame. The next

moment that white glare is gone, the clouds are no longer purple, fiery light no longer quivers and leaps along

the hedgerows. The passion in Hughs' face was gone as soon. Bianca felt a sense of disappointment, as

though she could have wished her life held a little more of that. He stole a glance at her out of his dark eyes,

which, when narrowed, had a velvety look, like the body of a wild bee, then jerked his thumb at the picture of

Hughs looked round, as though to find something that would help him to proceed; his eyes lighted on Hilary's

"Look here, lady," he said, "don't take it hard o' me coming here. I'm not out to do you a harm. I've got a wife

of my own, and Gawd knows I've enough to put up with from her about this girl. I'll be going in the water one

Having seen him through the side door out into the street, Blanca went back to where she had been standing

before he came. She found some difficulty in swallowing; for once there was no armour on her face. She

stood there a long time without moving, then put the pictures back into their places and went down the little

passage to the house. Listening outside her father's door, she turned the handle quietly and went in.

Mr. Stone, holding some sheets of paper out before him, was dictating to the little model, who was writing

laboriously with her face close above her arm. She stopped at Blanca's entrance. Mr. Stone did not stop, but,

Her father's voice, so thin and slow, with each syllable disjointed from the other, rose like monotony itself.

"'There were traceaable indeed, in those days, certain rudimen tary attempts to fuse the classes....'"

It went on unwavering, neither rising high nor falling low, as though the reader knew he had yet far to go,

To Blanca that thin voice might have been the customary sighing of the wind, her attention was so fast fixed

With his eyes fixed on the trees he stood breathing audibly. The little model moved her fingers, freeing them

from cramp. Blanca's curious, smiling scrutiny never left her, as though trying to fix an indelible image on

her mind. There was something terrifying in that stare, cruel to herself, cruel to the girl.

"The precise word," said Mr. Stone, "eludes me. Leave a blank. Follow!... 'Neither that sweet fraternal

interest of man in man, nor a curiosity in phenomena merely as phenomena....'" His voice pursued its tenuous

path through spaces, frozen by the calm eternal presence of his beloved idea, which, like a golden moon, far

and cold, presided glamorously above the thin track of words. And still the girl's penpoint traced his

utterance across the pages: Mr. Stone paused again, and looking at his daughter as though surprised to see her

But the little model's glance had stolen round to meet the scrutiny fixed on her.

A look passed across her face which seemed to say: 'What have I done to you, that you should stare at me like

Furtive and fascinated, her eyes remained fixed on Bianca, while her hand moved, mechanically ticking the

paragraphs. That silent duel of eyes went onthe woman's fixed, cruel, smiling; the girl's uncertain,

resentful. Neither of them heard a word that Mr. Stone was reading. They treated it as, from the beginning,

"That, I think," he murmured to himself, "is true." And suddenly he addressed his daughter. "Do you agree

He was evidently waiting with anxiety for her answer, and the little silver hairs that straggled on his lean

Bianca rose. Burning spots of colour had settled in her cheeks. She went towards the door, and the little

It was past six o'clock when Hilary at length reached home, preceded a little by Miranda, who almost felt

within her the desire to eat. The lilac bushes, not yet in flower, were giving forth spicy fragrance. The sun

still netted their top boughs, as with golden silk, and a blackbird, seated on a low branch of the acaciatree,

was summoning the evening. Mr. Stone, accompanied by the little model, dressed in her new clothes, was

coming down the path. They were evidently going for a walk, for Mr. Stone wore his hat, old and soft and

black, with a strong green tinge, and carried a paper parcel, which leaked crumbs of bread at every step.

The girl grew very red. She held her head down, as though afraid of Hilary's inspection of her new clothes. At

the gate she suddenly looked up. His face said: 'Yes, you look very nice!' And into her eyes a look leaped

such as one may see in dogs' eyes lifted in adoration to their masters' faces. Manifestly disconcerted, Hilary

turned to Mr. Stone. The old man was standing very still; a thought had evidently struck him. "I have not, I

think," he said, "given enough consideration to the question whether force is absolutely, or only relatively,

Accustomed to such divagations, Hilary answered: "I don't know whether you would be justifed, but I believe

The little model took the paper bag. "It's all dropping out," she said. From across the road she turned her

But Hilary passed rather hastily into the garden and shut the gate behind him. He sat in his study, with

Miranda near him, for fully an hour, without doing anything whatever, sunk in a strange, half pleasurable

torpor. At this hour he should have been working at his book; and the fact that his idleness did not trouble

him might well have given him uneasiness. Many thoughts passed through his mind, imaginings of things he

had thought left behind foreversensations and longings which to the normal eye of middle age are but

dried forms hung in the museum of memory. They started up at the whip of the stillliving youth, the lost

wildness at the heart of every man. Like the reviving flame of halfspent fires, longing for discovery leaped

and flickered in Hilaryto find out once again what things were like before he went down the hill of age.

No trivial ghost was beckoning him; it was the ghost, with unseen face and rosy finger, which comes to men

Miranda, hearing him so silent, rose. At this hour it was her master's habit to scratch paper. She, who seldom

scratched anything, because it was not delicate, felt dimly that this was what he should be doing. She held up

a slim foot and touched his knee. Receiving no discouragement, she delicately sprang into his lap, and,

forgetting for once her modesty, placed her arms on his chest, and licked his face all over.

It was while receiving this embrace that Hilary saw Mr. Stone and the little model returning across the

garden. The old man was walking very rapidly, holding out the fragment of a broken stick. He was extremely

"I cut him over the legs," said Mr. Stone. "I do not regret it"; and he walked on to his room.

"It was a little dog. The man kicked it, and Mr. Stone hit him. He broke his stick. There were several men;

they threatened us." She looked up at Hilary. "II was frightened. Oh! Mr. Dallison, isn't he funny?"

"He wanted to hit them again, after his stick was broken. Then a policeman came, and they all ran away."

Perceiving that she had not as yet made much effect, the little model cast down her eyes.

That same evening, driving with his wife back from a long, dull dinner, Hilary began:

"This man Hughs has become infatuated with her. He has even said, I believe, that he was coming to see

"It was good of you to tell me, considering that we go our own ways. What made you?"

"I have made the child a present of some clothes which she badly needed. So far as I know, that's all I've

"I?" No gust of the east wind, making the young leaves curl and shiver, the gas jets flare and die down in

their lamps, could so have nipped the flower of amity. Through Hilary's mind flashed Stephen's almost

He looked round. A blue gauze scarf was wrapped over his wife's dark head. There, in her corner, as far away

from him as she could get, she was smiling. For a moment Hilary had the sensation of being stiffed by fold

on fold of that blue gauze scarf, as if he were doomed to drive for ever, suffocated, by the side of this woman

A desire to laugh seized Hilary. "What do you wish me to do?" "You will do what you like, of course!" Could

"B." he said, with an effort, "the wife is jealous. We put the girl into that housewe ought to get her out."

"From the first," she said, "the girl has been your property; do what you like with her. I shall not meddle."

"Oh, very well! I have told you; you can see Hughs when he comesor not, as you like."

Blanca suddenly sat forward, and threw back the blue scarf, as though she, too, were stifling. In her flushed

"Is it likely," she said, "that I should listen? That's enough, please, of these people."

Hilary bowed. The cab, bearing them fast home, turned into the last short cut. This narrow street was full of

men and women circling round barrows and lighted booths. The sound of coarse talk and laughter floated out

into air thick with the reek of paraffin and the scent of frying fish. In every couple of those men and women

Hilary seemed to see the Hughs, that other married couple, going home to wedded happiness above the little

That same night, past one o'clock, he was roused from sleep by hearing bolts drawn back. He got up,

hastened to the window, and looked out. At first he could distinguish nothing. The moonless night; like a

dark bird, had nested in the garden; the sighing of the lilac bushes was the only sound. Then, dimly, just

The figure raised its face, and by the gleam of his white beard Hilary knew that it was Mr. Stone.

"No," answered Mr. Stone. "I am listening to the wind. It has visited everyone tonight." And lifting his

Cecilia's house in the Old Square was steeped from roof to basement in the peculiar atmosphere brought by

Neither she nor Stephen had been to church since Thyme was christened; they did not expect to go again till

she was married, and they felt that even to go on these occasions was against their principles; but for the sake

of other people's feelings they had made the sacrifice, and they meant to make it once more, when the time

came. Each Sunday, therefore, everything tried to happen exactly as it happened on every other day, with

indifferent success. This was because, for all Cecilia's resolutions, a joint of beef and Yorkshire pudding

would appear on the luncheontable, notwithstanding the fact that Mr. Stonewho came when he

remembered that it was Sundaydid not devour the higher mammals. Every week, when it appeared,

Cecilia, who for some reason carved on Sundays, regarded it with a frown. Next week she would really

discontinue it; but when next week came, there it was, with its complexion that reminded her so

uncomfortably of cabmen. And she would partake of it with unexpected heartiness. Something very old and

deep, some horrible wholehearted appetite, derived, no doubt, from Mr. Justice Carfax, rose at that hour

precisely every week to master her. Having given Thyme the second helping which she invariably took,

Cecilia, who detested carving, would look over the fearful joint at a piece of glass procured by her in Venice,

and at the daffodils standing upright in it, apparently without support. Had it not been for this joint of beef,

which had made itself smelt all the morning, and would make itself felt all the afternoon, it need never have

come into her mind at all that it was Sundayand she would cut herself another slice.

To have told Cecilia that there was still a strain of the Puritan in her would have been to occasion her some

uneasiness, and provoked a strenuous denial; yet her way of observing Sunday furnished indubitable evidence

of this singular fact. She did more that day than any other. For, in the morning she invariably "cleared off"

her correspondence; at lunch she carved the beef; after lunch she cleared off the novel or book on social

questions she was reading; went to a concert, clearing off a call on the way back; and on first Sundaysa

great borestayed at home to clear off the friends who came to visit her. In the evening she went to some

play or other, produced by Societies for the benefit of persons compelled, like her, to keep a Sunday with

On this particular "first Sunday," having made the circuit of her drawingroom, which extended the whole

breadth of her house, and through long, low windows cut into leaded panes, looked out both back and front,

she took up Mr. Balladyce's latest book. She sat, with her paperknife pressed against the tiny hollow in her

flushed cheek, and pretty little bits of lace and real old jewellery nestling close to her. And while she turned

the pages of Mr. Balladyce's book Thyme sat opposite in a bright blue frock, and turned the pages of

Regarding her "little daughter," who was so much more solid than herself, Cecilia's face wore a very sweet,

'My kitten is a bonny thing,' it seemed to say. 'It is queer that I should have a thing so large.'

Outside in the Square Gardens a shower, the sunlight, and blossoms, were entangled. It was the time of year

when all the world had kittens; young things were everywheresoft, sweet, uncouth. Cecilia felt this in her

heart. It brought depth into her bright, quick eyes. What a secret satisfaction it was that she had once so far

committed herself as to have borne a child! What a queer vague feeling she sometimes experienced in the

Springalmost amounting to a desire to bear another! So one may mark the warm eye of a staid mare,

following with her gaze the first strayings of her foal. 'I must get used to it,' she seems to say. 'I certainly do

miss the little creature, though I used to threaten her with my hoofs, to show I couldn't be bullied by anything

Remembering suddenly, however, that she was sitting there to clear off Mr. Balladyce, because it was so

necessary to keep up with what he wrote, Cecilia dropped her gaze to the page before her; and instantly, by

uncomfortable chance, not the choice pastures of Mr. Balladyce appeared, where women might browse at

leisure, but a vision of the little model. She had not thought of her for quite an hour; she had tired herself out

with thinkingnot, indeed, of her, but of all that hinged on her, ever since Stephen had spoken of his talk with

Hilary. Things Hilary had said seemed to Cecilia's delicate. and rather timid soul so ominous, so unlike

himself. Was there really going to be complete disruption between him and Biancaworse, an ugly scandal?

She, who knew her sister better, perhaps, than anyone, remembered from schoolroom days Bianca's moody

violence when anything had occurred to wound herremembered, too, the long fits of brooding that

followed. This affair, which she had tried to persuade herself was exaggerated, loomed up larger than ever. It

was not an isolated squib; it was a lighted match held to a train of gunpowder. This girl of the people, coming

from who knew where, destined for who knew whatthis young, not very beautiful, not even clever child,

with nothing but a sort of queer haunting naivete' to give her charm might even be a finger used by Fate!

Cecilia sat very still before that sudden vision of the girl. There was no staid mare to guard that foal with the

dark devotion of her eye. There was no wise whinnying to answer back those tiny whinnies; no long look

round to watch the little creature nodding to sleep on its thin trembling legs in the hot sunlight; no ears to

prick up and hoofs to stamp at the approach of other living things. These thoughts passed through Cecilia's

mind and were gone, being too far and pale to stay. Turning the page which she had not been reading, she

"These worms are fearfully interesting," she said. "Is anybody coming in this afternoon?"

"Mrs. Tallents Smallpeace was going to bring a young man in, a Signor PozziEgregio Pozzi, or some such

name. She says he is the coming pianist." Cecilia's face was spiced with faint amusement. Some strain of her

breeding (the Carfax strain, no doubt) still heard such names and greeted such proclivities with an inclination

Thyme snatched up her book. "Well," she said, "I shall be in the attic. If anyone interesting comes you might

She stood, luxuriously stretching, and turning slowly round in a streak of sunlight so as to bathe her body in

it. Then, with a long soft yawn, she flung up her chin till the sun streamed on her face. Her eyelashes rested

on cheeks already faintly browned; her lips were parted; little shivers of delight ran down her; her chestnut

'Ah!' Cecilia thought, 'if that other girl were like this, now, I could understand well enough!'

A minute later Mrs. Tallents Smallpeace came in, followed by a young man with an interesting, pale face and

Let us consider for a minute the not infrequent case of a youth cursed with an Italian mother and a father of

the name of Potts, who had baptised him William. Had he emanated from the lower classes, he might with

impunity have ground an organ under the name of Bill; but springing from the bourgeoisie, and playing

Chopin at the age of four, his friends had been confronted with a problem of no mean difficulty. Heaven, on

the threshold of his career, had intervened to solve it. Hovering, as it were, with one leg raised before the

gladiatorial arena of musical London, where all were waiting to turn their thumbs down on the figure of the

native Potts, he had received a letter from his mother's birthplace. It was inscribed: "Egregio Signor Pozzi."

He was saved. By the simple inversion of the first two words, the substitution of z's for t's, without so

fortunately making any difference in the sound, and the retention of that i, all London knew him now to be

He was a quiet, wellmannered youth, invaluable just then to Mrs. Tallents Smallpeace, a woman never

Cecilia, while engaging them to right and left in her half sympathetic, faintly mocking wayas if doubting

Mr. Purcey, whose A.i. Damyer could be heard outside, advanced in his direct and simple way.

"I thought I'd give my car a run," he said. "How's your sister?" And seeing Mrs. Tallents Smallpeace, he

"We did," said Mrs. Tallents Smallpeace, whose little eyes were sparkling. "We talked about the poor, do you

Mr. Purcey, a sensitive man if you could get through his skin, gave her a shrewd look. 'I don't quite cotton to

Mr. Purcey made a movement of his face which caused it to seem all jaw. It was a sort of unconscious

declaration of a somewhat formidable character. So one may see bulldogs, those amiable animals, suddenly

Something in Cecilia fluttered at those words. It was like the saying of a healthy man looking at a box of pills

which he did not mean to open. Why could not she and Stephen keep that lid on, too? And at this moment, to

her deep astonishment, Stephen entered. She had sent for him, it is true, but had never expected he would

Feeling, as he said, a little "off colour," Stephen had not gone to Richmond to play golf. He had spent the day

instead in the company of his pipe and those ancient coins, of which he had the best collection of any man he

had ever met. His thoughts had wandered from them, more than he thought proper, to Hilary and that girl. He

had felt from the beginning that he was so much more the man to deal with an affair like this than poor old

Hilary. When, therefore, Thyme put her head into his study and said, "Father, Mrs. Tallents Smallpeace!" he

had first thought, 'That busybody!' and then, 'I wonderperhaps I'd better go and see if I can get anything

In considering Stephen's attitude towards a woman so firmly embedded in the various social movements of

the day, it must be remembered that he represented that large class of men who, unhappily too cultivated to

put aside, like Mr. Purcey, all blue subjects, or deny the need for movements to make them less blue, still

could not move, for fear of being out of order. He was also temperamentally distrustful of anything too

feminine; and Mrs. Tallents Smallpeace was undoubtedly extremely feminine. Her merit, in his eyes,

consisted of her attachment to Societies. So long as mankind worked through Societies, Stephen, who knew

the power of rules and minute books, did not despair of too little progress being made. He sat down beside

Searching his face with those eyes so like little black bees sipping honey from all the flowers that grew, Mrs.

To Stephen this question was naturally both unexpected and annoying, one's wife being the last person he

"Oh, that is such a delicious expression, Mr. Purcey! I almost think we ought to use it in our Report. Thank

"We have our trained inquirers. That is the advantage of Societies such as ours; so that we don't personally

have the unpleasantness. Some cases do baffle everybody. It's such very delicate work."

"You sometimes find you let in a rotter?" said Mr. Purcey, "or, I should say, a rotter lets you in! Ha, ha!"

"Not often," she said; and turning rather markedly once more to Stephen: "Have you any special case that you

Stephen consulted Cecilia with one of those masculine halfglances so discreet that Mrs. Tallents Smallpeace

intercepted it without looking up. She found it rather harder to catch Cecilia's reply, but she caught it before

Stephen did. It was, 'You'd better wait, perhaps,' conveyed by a tiny raising of the left eyebrow and a slight

movement to the right of the lower lip. Putting two and two together, she felt within her bones that they were

thinking of the little model. And she remembered the interesting moment in the omnibus when that

There was no danger whatever from Mrs. Tallents Smallpeace feeling anything. The circle in which she

moved did not now talk scandal, or, indeed, allude to matters of that sort without deep sympathy; and in the

second place she was really far too good a fellow, with far too dear a love of life, to interfere with anybody

Stephen gave him the look with which he was accustomed to curdle the blood of persons who gave evidence

The little black bees flying below Mrs. Tallents Smallpeace's dark hair, done in the Early Italian fashion,

"Ah!" murmured Stephen, "there would be, I suppose, a danger" And he looked angrily at Cecilia.

Without ceasing to converse with Mr. Purcey and Signor Egregio Pozzi, she moved her left eye upwards.

Mrs. Tallents Smallpeace understood this to mean: 'Be frank, and guarded!' Stephen, however, interpreted it

otherwise. To him it signified: 'What the deuce do you look at me for?' And he felt justly hurt. He therefore

Mrs. Tallents Smallpeace, sliding her face sideways, with a really charming little smile, asked softly:

And her little eyes fled to Thyme, who had slipped into the room, and was whispering to her mother.

"You know my daughter," she said. "Will you excuse me just a minute? I'm so very sorry." She glided

towards the door, and threw a flying look back. It was one of those social moments precious to those who are

Mrs. Tallents Smallpeace was smiling, Stephen frowning at his boots; Mr. Purcey stared admiringly at

Thyme, and Thyme, sitting very upright, was calmly regarding the unfortunate Egregio Pozzi, who

When Cecilia found herself outside, she stood still a moment to compose her nerves. Thyme had told her that

As in most women of her class and bringingup, Cecilia's qualities of reticence and subtlety, the delicate

treading of her spirit, were seen to advantage in a situation such as this. Unlike Stephen, who had shown at

once that he had something on his mind, she received Hilary with that exact shade of friendly, intimate, yet

cool affection long established by her as the proper manner towards her husband's brother. It was not quite

sisterly, but it was very nearly so. It seemed to say: 'We understand each other as far as it is right and fitting

that we should; we even sympathise with the difficulties we have each of us experienced in marrying the

other's sister or brother, as the case may be. We know the worst. And we like to see each other, too, because

Giving him her soft little hand, she began at once to talk of things farthest from her heart. She saw that she

was deceiving Hilary, and this feather in the cap of her subtlety gave her pleasure. But her nerves fluttered at

once when he said: "I want to speak to you, Cis. You know that Stephen and I had a talk yesterday, I

"Oh!" Cecilia murmured. She longed to ask what Bianca had said, but did not dare, for Hilary had his armour

on, the retired, ironical look he always wore when any subject was broached for which he was too sensitive.

"The whole thing is distasteful to me," he said; "but I must do something for this child. I can't leave her

"Hilary," she said softly, "Mrs. Tallents Smallpeace is in the drawingroom. She was just speaking of the girl

It needed all Cecilia's subtlety to hide her consternation. End to what? Did he mean that he and B. were going

"I won't have all this vulgar gossip about the poor girl. I shall go and find another room for her."

"It's very good of you," said Hilary dryly. "My actions appear to rouse suspicions."

"Oh, that's absurd! Still, no one could think anything if I come with you. Hilary, have you thought that if she

Cecilia's heart gave two thumps, the first with pleasure, the second with sympathy.

"But I'm afraid it's the only way," went on Cecilia, rather hastily. "And, of course, it will be no good saying

anything to Father; one must simply let him suppose that she has got tired of it."

"He will think it very funny,", murmured Cecilia pensively. "Oh, and have you thought that taking her away

"Oh, but then, of course, if you don't see her afterwards, they will have nono excuse at all."

"Why, to take all this trouble. Is it really necessary for you to do anything?" But looking in his face, she went

on hastily: "Yes, yes, it's best. Let's go at once. Oh, those people in the drawingroom! Do wait ten minutes."

A little later, running up to put her hat on, she wondered why it was that Hilary always made her want to

Having little or no notion where to go, they walked in the direction of Bayswater. To place the Park between

Hound Street and the little model was the first essential. On arriving at the other side of the Broad Walk, they

made instinctively away from every sight of green. In a long, grey street of dismally respectable appearance

they found what they were looking for, a bedsitting room furnished, advertised on a card in the window.

The door was opened by the landlady, a tall woman of narrow build, with a WestCountry accent, and a

rather hungry sweetness running through her hardness. They stood talking with her in a passage, whose

oilcloth of variegated pattern emitted a faint odour. The staircase could be seen climbing steeply up past walls

covered with a shining paper cut by narrow red lines into small yellow squares. An almanack, of so floral a

design that nobody would surely want to steal it, hung on the wall; below it was an umbrella stand without

umbrellas. The dim little passage led past two grimly closed doors painted rusty red to two halfopen doors

with dull glass in their panels. Outside, in the street from which they had mounted by stone steps, a shower of

sleet had begun to fall. Hilary shut the door, but the cold spirit of that shower had already slipped into the

"This is the apartment, m'm," said the landlady, opening the first of the rustycoloured doors. The room,

which had a paper of blue roses on a yellow ground, was separated from another room by double doors.

"I let the rooms together sometimes, but just now that room's taken a young gentleman in the City; that's

The landlady quickly turned the handles of the doors, showing that they would not open.

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. He was standing with his back against the door. On his face was a

strange and bitter look, such as a man might have on seeing the face of Ugliness herself, feeling that she was

not only without him, but withina universal spirit; the look of a man who had thought that he was

chivalrous, and found that he was not; of a leader about to give an order that he would not himself have

"It's all very nice and clean; it will do very well, I think. Seven shillings a week, I believe you said. We will

The first glimmer of a smile appeared on the landlady's grim face, with its hungry eyes, sweetened by

"I don't know," muttered Hilary." The sooner the betterif it must be. Tomorrow, or the day after."

And with one look at the bed, covered by a piece of cheap redand yellow tasselled tapestry, he went out

into the street. The shower was over, but the house faced north, and no sun was shining on it.

Like flies caught among the impalpable and smoky threads of cobwebs, so men struggle in the webs of their

own natures, giving here a start, there a pitiful small jerking, long sustained, and failing into stillness.

Enmeshed they were born, enmeshed they die, fighting according to their strength to the end; to fight in the

hope of freedom, their joy; to die, not knowing they are beaten, their reward. Nothing, too, is more to be

remarked than the manner in which Life devises for each man the particular dilemmas most suited to his

nature; that which to the man of gross, decided, or fanatic turn of mind appears a simple sum, to the man of

So it was with Hilary in that special web wherein his spirit struggled, sunrise unto sunset, and by moonlight

afterward. Inclination, and the circumstances of a life which had never forced him to grips with either men or

women, had detached him from the necessity for giving or taking orders. He had almost lost the faculty. Life

had been a picture with blurred outlines melting into a softly shaded whole. Not for years had anything

seemed to him quite a case for "Yes" or "No." It had been his creed, his delight, his business, too, to try and

put himself in everybody's place, so that now there were but few places where he did not, speculatively

Putting himself into the little model's place gave him but small delight. Making due allowance for the

sentiment men naturally import into their appreciation of the lives of women, his conception of her place was

Here was a child, barely twenty years of age, country bred, neither a lady nor quite a workinggirl, without a

home or relatives, according to her own accountat all events, without those who were disposed to help

herwithout apparently any sort of friend; helpless by nature, and whose profession required a more than

common warinessthis girl he was proposing to set quite adrift again by cutting through the single slender

rope which tethered her. It was like digging up a little rosetree planted with one's own hands in some poor

shelter, just when it had taken root, and setting it where the full winds would beat against it. To do so brusque

and, as it seemed to Hilary, so inhumane a thing was foreign to his nature. There was also the little matter of

that touch of feverthe distant music he had been hearing since the waggons came in to Covent Garden.

With a feeling that was almost misery, therefore, he waited for her on Monday afternoon, walking to and fro

in his study, where all the walls were white, and all the woodwork coloured like the leaf of a cigar; where the

books were that colour too, in Hilary's special deerskin binding; where there were no flowers nor any sunlight

coming through the windows, but plenty of sheets of papera room which youth seemed to have left for

He called her in with the intention of at once saying what he had to say, and getting it over in the fewest

words. But he had not reckoned fully either with his own nature or with woman's instinct. Nor had he

allowedbeing, for all his learning, perhaps because of it, singularly unable to gauge the effects of simple

actionsfor the proprietary relations he had established in the girl's mind by giving her those clothes.

As a dog whose master has it in his mind to go away from him, stands gazing up with tragic inquiry in his

eyes, scenting to his soul that coming crueltyas a dog thus soon to be bereaved, so stood the little model.

By the pose of every limb, and a fixed gaze bright as if tears were behind it, and by a sort of trembling, she

When Hilary saw her stand like that he felt as a man might when told to flog his fellowcreature. To gain

time he asked her what she did with herself all day. The little model evidently tried to tell herself that her

Now that the mornings were niceshe said with some animationshe got up much earlier, and did her

needlework first thing; she then "did out" the room. There were mouseholes in her room, and she had

bought a trap. She had caught a mouse last night. She hadn't liked to kill it; she had put it in a tin box, and let

it go when she went out. Quick to see that Hilary was interested in this, as well he might be, she told him that

she could not bear to see cats hungry or lost dogs, especially lost dogs, and she described to him one that she

had seen. She had not liked to tell a policeman; they stared so hard. Those words were of strange omen, and

Hilary turned his head away. The little model, perceiving that she had made an effect of some sort, tried to

deepen it. She had heard they did all sorts of things to peoplebut, seeing at once from Hilary's face that she

was not improving her effect, she broke off suddenly, and hastily began to tell him of her breakfast, of how

comfortable she was now she had got her clothes; how she liked her room; how old Mr. Creed was very

funny, never taking any notice of her when he met her in the morning. Then followed a minute account of

where she had been trying to get work; of an engagement promised; Mr. Lennard, too, still wanted her to

pose to him. At this she gashed a look at Hilary, then cast down her eyes. She could get plenty of work if she

began that way. But she hadn't, because he had told her not, and, of course, she didn't want to; she liked

coming to Mr. Stone so much. And she got on very well, and she liked London, and she liked the shops. She

mentioned neither Hughs nor Mrs. Hughs. In all this rigmarole, told with such obvious purpose, stolidity was

strangely mingled with almost cunning quickness to see the effect made; but the doglike devotion was never

This look got through the weakest places in what little armour Nature had bestowed on him. It touched one of

the least conceited and most amiable of men profoundly. He felt it an honour that anything so young as this

should regard him in that way. He had always tried to keep out of his mind that which might have given him

the key to her special feeling for himselfthose words of the painter of still life: "She's got a story of some

sort." But it flashed across him suddenly like an inspiration: If her story were the simplest of all storiesthe

direct, rather brutal, love affair of a village boy and girlwould not she, naturally given to surrender, be

forced this time to the very antithesis of that young animal amour which had brought on her such, sharp

But, wherever her devotion came from, it seemed to Hilary the grossest violation of the feelings of a

gentleman to treat it ungratefully. Yet it was as if for the purpose of saying, "You are a nuisance to me, or

worse!" that he had asked her to his study. Her presence had hitherto chiefly roused in him the halfamused,

half tender feelings of one who strokes a foal or calf, watching its soft uncouthness; now, about to say

The little model, who was stroking a china ashtray with her ungloved, inky fingers, muttered, with a smile,

half pathetic, half cynical: "She doesn't like me! She knows I don't belong here. She hates me to come. She's

Then, as though guilty of afar too daring thought, drooped her head, and answered:

The little model repeated almost passionately: "No. I don't want any friends; I only want to be let alone."

"But these Hughs have not left you alone. I told you, I thought you ought to move; I've taken another room

for you quite away from them. Leave your furniture with a week's rent, and take your trunk quietly away

tomorrow in a cab without saying a word to anyone. This is the new address, and here's the money for your

Hilary went on: "Listen! You mustn't come here again, or the man will trace you. We will take care you have

The little model looked up at him without a word. Now that the thin link which bound her to some sort of

household gods had snapped, all the patience and submission bred in her by village life, by the hard facts of

her story, and by these last months in London, served her well enough. She made no fuss. Hilary saw a tear

Quite obediently the little model swallowed the tear. A thought seemed to strike her:

Seeing from his face that this was not in the programme, she stood silent again, looking up at him.

It was a little difficult for Hilary to say: "I can't see you because my wife is jealous!" It was cruel to tell her:

"You'll soon be making friends," he said at last, "and you can always write to me"; and with a queer smile he

added: "You're only just beginning life; you mustn't take these things to heart; you'll find plenty of people

The little model answered this by seizing his hand with both of hers. She dropped it again at once, as if guilty

of presumption, and stood with her head bent. Hilary, looking down on the little hat which, by his special

"Ivy! Well, I'll write to you. But you must promise me to do exactly as I said."

The girl looked up; her face was almost uglylike a child's in whom a storm of feeling is repressed.

With a bitter droop of her lower lip, she nodded, and suddenly put her hand to her heart. That action, of which

she was clearly unconscious, so naively, so almost automatically was it done, nearly put an end to Hilary's

The little model drew herself up to her full height; her breast heaved beneath the clothes which had made her

Hilary's. She was very like "The Shadow" at that moment, as though whatever Hilary might do there she

would bea little ghost, the spirit of the helpless submerged world, for ever haunting with its dumb appeal

The little model put out her not too white, small hand. It was soft, clinging: and as hot as fire.

The little model gave him a look with whoknowswhat of reproach in it, and, faithful to her training, went

Hilary did not look after her, but, standing by the lofty mantelpiece above the ashes of the fire, rested his

forehead on his arm. Not even a fly's buzzing broke the stillness. There was sound for all thatnot of distant

It is fitting that a few words should be said about the writer of the "Book of Universal Brotherhood."

Sylvanus Stone, having graduated very highly at the London University, had been appointed at an early age

lecturer to more than one Public Institution. He had soon received the professorial robes due to a man of his

profound learning in the natural sciences, and from that time till he was seventy his life had flowed on in one

continual round of lectures, addresses, disquisitions, and arguments on the subjects in which he was a

specialist. At the age of seventy, long after his wife's death and the marriages of his three children, he had for

some time been living by himself, when a very serious illnessthe result of liberties taken with an iron

During the long convalescence following this illness the power of contemplation, which the Professor had up

to then given to natural science, began to fix itself on life at large. But the mind which had made of natural

science an idea, a passion, was not content with vague reflections on life. Slowly, subtly, with irresistible

centrifugal forcewith a force which perhaps it would not have acquired but for that illnessthe idea, the

passion of Universal Brotherhood had sucked into itself all his errant wonderings on the riddle of existence.

The single mind of this old man, divorced by illness from his previous existence, pensioned and permanently

shelved, began to worship a new star, that with every week and month and year grew brighter, till all other

At the age of seventyfour he had begun his book. Under the spell of his subject and of advancing age, his

extreme inattention to passing matters became rapidly accentuated. His figure had become almost too

publicly conspicuous before Bianca, finding him one day seated on the roof of his lonely little topstory flat,

the better to contemplate his darling Universe, had inveigled him home with her, and installed him in a room

in her own house. After the first day or two he had not noticed any change to speak of.

His habits in his new home were soon formed, and once formed, they varied not at all; for he admitted into

On the afternoon following Hilary's dismissal of the little model, being disappointed of his amanuensis, Mr.

Stone had waited for an hour, reading his pages over and over to himself. He had then done his exercises. At

the usual time for tea he had sat down, and, with his cup and brown breadandbutter alternately at his lips,

had looked long and fixedly at the place where the girl was wont to sit. Having finished, he left the room and

went about the house. He found no one but Miranda, who, seated in the passage leading to the studio, was

trying to keep one eye on the absence of her master and the other on the absence of her mistress. She joined

Mr. Stone, maintaining a respectcompelling interval behind him when he went before, and before him when

he went behind. When they had finished hunting, Mr. Stone went down to the garden gate. Here Bianca

found him presently motionless, without a hat, in the full sun, craning his white head in the direction from

which he knew the little model habitually came. The mistress of the house was herself returning from her

annual visit to the Royal Academy, where she still went, as dogs, from some perverted sense, will go and

sniff round other dogs to whom they have long taken a dislike. A loosehanging veil depended from her

mushroomshaped and coloured hat. Her eyes were brightened by her visit. Mr. Stone soon seemed to take in

who she was, and stood regarding her a minute without speaking. His attitude towards his daughters was

rather like that of an old drake towards two swans whom he has inadvertently begottenthere was inquiry in

"I cannot find him," answered Mr. Stone. Something about his patient stooping figure and white head, on

"It would be against my principles; I cannot take an unpaid service. But if you would come, my dear, I should

At that request Bianca's eyes grew dim. Pressing Mr. Stone's shaggy arm against her breast, she moved with

"I think I may have written something that will interest you," Mr. Stone said, as they went along.

"It is universal," said Mr. Stone; "it concerns birth. Sit at the table. I will begin, as usual, where I left off

Bianca took the little model's seat, resting her chin on her hand, as motionless as any of the statues she had

just been viewing. It almost seemed as if Mr. Stone were feeling nervous. He twice arranged his papers;

cleared his throat; then, lifting a sheet suddenly, took three steps, turned his back on her, and began to read.

"'In that slow, incessant change of form to form, called Life, men, made spasmodic by perpetual action, had

seized on a certain moment, no more intrinsically notable than any other moment, and had called it Birth.

This habit of honouring one single instant of the universal process to the disadvantage of all the other instants

had done more, perhaps, than anything to obfuscate the crystal clearness of the fundamental flux. As well

might such as watch the process of the green, unfolding earth, emerging from the brumous arms of winter,

isolate a single day and call it Spring. In the tides of rhythm by which the change of form to form was

governed'"Mr. Stone's voice, which had till then been but a thin, husky murmur, gradually grew louder and

louder, as though he were addressing a great concourse "'the golden universal haze in which men should

have flown like bright wingbeats round the sun gave place to the parasitic halo which every man derived

from the glorifying of his own nativity. To this primary mistake could be traced his intensely personal

philosophy. Slowly but surely there had dried up in his heart the wish to be his brother.'"

"Her eyes," said Mr. Stone, "have a peculiar look; they help me to see into the future. I have noticed the same

"There is one virtue in dogs," said Hilary, "which human beings lack they are incapable of mockery."

But Bianca's lips, parted, indrawn, seemed saying: 'You ask too much! I no longer attract you. Am I to

Hilary and Bianca made no sound, nor did they look at one another; and in this silence, so much more full of

meaning than any talk, the scratching of the quill went on. Mr. Stone put it down at last, and, seeing two

"'Looking back at those days when the doctrine of evolution had reached its pinnacle, one sees how the

human mind, by its habit of continual crystallisations, had destroyed all the meaning of the process. Witness,

for example, that sterile phenomenon, the pagoda of 'caste'! Like this Chinese building, so was Society then

formed. Men were living there in layers, as divided from each other, class from class'" He took up the

"You understand, I suppose," said Hilary in a low voice, "that she has been told not to come?"

"Is it within the scope of your generosity to credit me with the desire to meet your wishes?"

Bianca's answer was a laugh so strangely hard, so cruelly bitter, that Hilary involuntarily turned, as though to

Mr. Stone had laid down his pen. "I shall write no more today," he said; "I have lost my feelingI am not

Very tired and worn his old figure looked; as some lean horse, whose sun has set, stands with drooped head,

the hollows in his neck showing under his straggling mane. And suddenly, evidently quite oblivious that he

"O Great Universe, I am an old man of a faint spirit, with no singleness of purpose. Help me to write

A dead silence followed that strange prayer; then Bianca, with tears rolling down her face, got up and rushed

Mr. Stone came to himself. His mute, white face had suddenly grown scared and pink. He looked at Hilary.

Not feeling certain of his voice, Hilary shook his head, and he, too, moved towards the door.

That saying of Mr. Stone's, whichlike so many of his sayingshad travelled forth to beat the air, might

have seemed, even "in those days," not altogether without meaning to anyone who looked into the room of

This aged butler lay in bed waiting for the inevitable striking of a small alarum clock placed in the very

centre of his mantelpiece. Flanking that round and ruthless arbiter, which drove him day by day to stand up

on feet whose time had come to rest, were the effigies of his past triumphs. On the one hand, in a

papiermache frame, slightly tinged with smuts, stood a portrait of the "Honorable Bateson," in the uniform

of his Yeomanry. Creed's former master's face wore that daredevil look with which he had been wont to say:

"Dn it, Creed! lend me a pound. I've got no money!" On the other hand, in a green frame which had once

been plush, and covered by a glass with a crack in the lefthand corner, was a portrait of the Dowager

Countess of Glengower, as this former mistress of his appeared, conceived by the local photographer, laying

the foundation stone of the local almshouse. During the wreck of Creed's career, which, following on a

lengthy illness, had preceded his salvation by the Westminster Gazette, these two household gods had lain at

the bottom of an old tin trunk, in the possession of the keeper of a lodginghouse, waiting to be bailed out.

The "Honorable Bateson" was now dead, nor had he paid as yet the pounds he had borrowed. Lady

Glengower, too, was in heaven, remembering that she had forgotten all her servants in her will. He who had

served them was still alive, and his first thought, when he had secured his post on the "Westminister," was to

save enough to rescue them from a dishonourable confinement. It had taken him six months. He had found

them keeping company with three pairs of woollen drawers; an old but respectable black tailcoat; a plaid

cravat; a Bible; four socks, two of which had toes and two of which had heels; some darningcotton and a

needle; a pair of elasticsided boots; a comb and a sprig of white heather, wrapped up with a little piece of

shavingsoap and two pipe cleaners in a bit of the Globe newspaper; also two collars, whose lofty points,

separated by gaps of quite two inches, had been wont to reach their master's gills; the small alarum clock

aforesaid; and a tiepin formed in the likeness of Queen Victoria at the date of her first Jubilee. How many

times had he not gone in thought over those stores of treasure while he was parted from them! How many

times since they had come back to him had he not pondered with a slow but deathless anger on the absence of

But now he lay in bed waiting to hear the clock go off, with his old bristly chin beneath the bedclothes, and

his old discoloured nose above. He was thinking the thoughts which usually came into his mind about this

hourthat Mrs. Hughs ought not to scrape the butter off his bread for breakfast in the way she did; that she

ought to take that sixpence off his rent; that the man who brought his late editions in the cart ought to be

earlier, letting 'that man' get his Pell Mells off before him, when he himself would be having the one chance

of his day; that, sooner than pay the ninepence which the bootmaker had proposed to charge for resoling him,

he would wait until the summer came 'low class o' feller' as he was, he'd be glad enough to sole him then for

And the highsouled critic, finding these reflections sordid, would have thought otherwise, perhaps, had he

been standing on those feet (now twitching all by themselves beneath the bedclothes) up to eleven o'clock the

night before, because there were still twelve numbers of the late edition that nobody would buy. No one knew

more surely than Joshua Creed himself that, if he suffered himself to entertain any large and lofty views of

life, he would infallibly find himself in that building to keep out of which he was in the habit of addressing to

God his only prayer to speak of. Fortunately, from a boy up, together with a lengthy, oblong, squarejawed

face, he had been given by Nature a singleminded view of life. In fact, the mysterious, stout tenacity of a

soul born in the neighbourhood of Newmarket could not have been done justice to had he constitutionally

seenany more than Mr. Stone himselftwo things at a time. The one thing he had seen, for the five years

that he had now stood outside Messrs. Rose and Thorn's, was the workhouse; and, as he was not going there

so long as he was living, he attended carefully to all little matters of expense in this somewhat sordid way.

While attending thus, he heard a scream. Having by temperament considerable caution, but little fear, he

waited till he heard another, and then got out of bed. Taking the poker in his hand, and putting on his

spectacles, he hurried to the door. Many a time and oft in old days had he risen in this fashion to defend the

plate of the "Honorable Bateson" and the Dowager Countess of Glengower from the periodical attacks of his

imagination. He stood with his ancient nightgown flapping round his still more ancient legs, slightly

shivering; then, pulling the door open, he looked forth. On the stairs just above him Mrs. Hughs, clasping her

baby with one arm, was holding the other out at full length between herself and Hughs. He heard the latter

say: "You've drove me to it; I'll do a swing for you!" Mrs. Hughs' thin body brushed past into his room; blood

was dripping from her wrist. Creed saw that Hughs had his bayonet in his hand. With all his might he called

out: "Ye ought to be ashamed of yourself!" raising the poker to a position of defence. At this momentmore

really dangerous than any he had ever knownit was remarkable that he instinctively opposed to it his most

ordinary turns of speech. It was as though the extravagance of this un English violence had roused in him

the full measure of a native moderation. The sight of the naked steel deeply disgusted him; he uttered a long

sentence. What did Hughs call thisdisgracin' of the house at this time in the mornin'? Where was he

brought up? Call 'imself a soldier, attackin' of old men and women in this way? He ought to be ashamed!

While these words were issuing between the yellow stumps of teeth in that withered mouth, Hughs stood

silent, the back of his arm covering his eyes. Voices and a heavy tread were heard. Distinguishing in that

tread the advancing footsteps of the Law, Creed said: "You attack me if you dare!"

Hughs dropped his arm. His short, dark face had a desperate look, as of a caged rat; his eyes were everywhere

"All right, daddy," he said; "I won't hurt you. She's drove my head all wrong again. Catch hold o' this; I can't

"To use a thing like that!" he said. "An' call yourself an Englishman! I'll ketch me death standin' here, I will."

Hughs made no answer leaning against the wall. The old butler regarded him severely. He did not take a wide

or philosophic view of him, as a tortured human being, driven by the whips of passion in his dark blood; a

creature whose moral nature was the warped, stunted tree his life had made it; a poor devil half destroyed by

drink and by his wound. The old butler took a more singleminded and old fashioned line. 'Ketch 'old of

'im!' he thought. 'With these low fellers there's nothin' else to be done. Ketch 'old of 'im until he squeals.'

"Here's an orficer. I shan't speak for yer; you deserves all you'll get, and more."

Later, dressed in an old Newmarket coat, given him by some client, and walking towards the policestation

alongside Mrs. Hughs, he was particularly silent, presenting a front of some austerity, as became a man

mixed up in a low class of incident like this. And the seamstress, very thin and scared, with her wounded

wrist slung in a muffler of her husband's, and carrying the baby on her other arm, because the morning's

incident had upset the little thing, slipped along beside him, glancing now and then into his face.

"I don't know what they'll say to me down at the orffice, when I go againmissin' my day like this! Oh dear,

At this, which was far from being intended as encouragement, the waters of speech broke up and flowed from

Mrs. Hughs. She had only told Hughs how that young girl had gone, and left a week's rent, with a bit of

writing to say she wasn't coming back; it wasn't her fault that she was gonethat ought never to have come

there at all, a creature that knew no better than to come between husband and wife. She couldn't tell no more

The tears, stealing forth, chased each other down the seamstress's thin cheeks. Her face had now but little

likeness to the face with which she had stood confronting Hughs when she informed him of the little model's

flight. None of the triumph which had leaped out of her bruised heart, none of the strident malice with which

her voice, whether she would or no, strove to avenge her wounded sense of property; none of that

unconscious abnegation, so very near to heroism, with which she had rushed and caught up her baby from

beneath the bayonet, when, goaded by her malice and triumph, Hughs had rushed to seize that weapon. None

of all that, but, instead, a pitiable terror of the ordeal before hera pitiful, mute, quivering distress, that this

man, against whom, two hours before, she had felt such a store of bitter rancour, whose almost murderous

The sight of her emotion penetrated through his spectacles to something lying deep in the old butler.

"Don't you take on," he said; "I'll stand by yer. He shan't treat yer with impuniness."

To his uncomplicated nature the affair was still one of tit for tat. Mrs. Hughs became mute again. Her torn

heart yearned to cancel the penalty that would fall on all of them, to deliver Hughs from the common

enemythe Law; but a queer feeling of pride and bewilderment, and a knowledge, that, to demand an eye

Thus, then, they reached the great consoler, the grey resolver of all human tangles, haven of men and angels,

the police court. It was situated in a back street. Like trails of ooze, when the tide, neither ebb nor flow, is

leaving and making for some estuary, trails of human beings were moving to and from it. The faces of these

shuffling "shadows" wore a look as though masked with some hard but threadbare stuffthe look of those

whom Life has squeezed into a last resort. Within the porches lay a stagnant marsh of suppliants, through

whose centre trickled to and fro that stream of ooze. An old policeman, too, like some grey lighthouse,

marked the entrance to the port of refuge. Close to that lighthouse the old butler edged his way. The love of

regularity, and of an established order of affairs, born in him and fostered by a life passed in the service of the

"Honorable Bateson" and the other gentry, made him cling instinctively to the only person in this crowd

whom he could tell for certain to be on the side of law and order. Something in his oblong face and lank,

scanty hair parted precisely in the middle, something in that high collar supporting his lean gills, not

subservient exactly, but as it were suggesting that he was in league against all this lowclass of fellow, made

The policeman cast his not unkindly look over the figure of the seamstress. "You stand here," he said; " I'll

They sat down side by side on the edge of a long, hard, wooden bench; Creed fixing his eyes, whose colour

had run into a brownish rim round their centres, on the magistrate, as in old days sunworshippers would sit

blinking devoutly at the sun; and Mrs. Hughs fixing her eyes on her lap, while tears of agony trickled down

her face. On her unwounded arm the baby slept. In front of them, and unregarded, filed one by one those

shadows who had drunk the day before too deeply of the waters of forgetfulness. Today, instead, they were

to drink the water of remembrance, poured out for them with no uncertain hand. And somewhere very far

away, it may have been that Justice sat with her ironic smile watching men judge their shadows. She had

watched them so long about that business. With her elementary idea that hares and tortoises should not be

made to start from the same mark she had a little given up expecting to be asked to come and lend a hand;

they had gone so far beyond her. Perhaps she knew, too, that men no longer punished, but now only

reformed, their erring brothers, and this made her heart as light as the hearts of those who had been in the

The old butler, however, was not thinking of her; he had thoughts of a simpler order in his mind. He was

reflecting that he had once valeted the nephew of the late Lord Justice Hawthorn, and in the midst of this

lowclass business the reminiscence brought him refreshment. Over and over to himself he conned these

words: "I interpylated in between them, and I says, 'You ought to be ashamed of yourself; call yourself an

Englishman, I says, attackin' of old men and women with cold steel, I says!'" And suddenly he saw that

The dark man stood with his hands pressed to his sides, as though at attention on parade. A pale profile,

broken by a line of black moustache, was all "Westminister" could see of that impassive face, whose eyes,

fixed on the magistrate, alone betrayed the fires within. The violent trembling of the seamstress roused in

Joshua Creed a certain irritation, and seeing the baby open his black eyes, he nudged her, whispering: "Ye've

Responding to words, which alone perhaps could have moved her at such a moment, Mrs. Hughs rocked this

He who wished to read the hearts of this husband and wife who stood at right angles, to have their wounds

healed by Law, would have needed to have watched the hundred thousand hours of their wedded life, known

and heard the million thoughts and words which had passed in the dim spaces of their world, to have been

cognisant of the million reasons why they neither of them felt that they could have done other than they had

done. Reading their hearts by the light of knowledge such as this, he would not have been surprised that,

brought into this place of remedy, they seemed to enter into a sudden league. A look passed between them. It

was not friendly, it had no appeal; but it sufficed. There seemed to be expressed in it the knowledge bred by

immemorial experience and immemorial time: This law before which we stand was not made by us! As dogs,

when they hear the crack of a far whip, will shrink, and in their whole bearing show wary quietude, so Hughs

and Mrs. Hughs, confronted by the questionings of Law, made only such answers as could be dragged from

them. In a voice hardly above a whisper Mrs. Hughs told her tale. They had fallen out. What about? She did

not know. Had he attacked her? He had had it in his hand. What then? She had slipped, and hurt her wrist

against the point. At this statement Hughs turned his eyes on her, and seemed to say: "You drove me to it;

I've got to suffer, for all your trying to get me out of what I've done. I gave you one, and I don't want your

help. But I'm glad you stick to me against this Law!" Then, lowering his eyes, he stood motionless during her

breathless little outburst. He was her husband; she had borne him five; he had been wounded in the war. She

The old butler dwelt on this reticence of Mrs. Hughs, when, two hours afterwards, in pursuance of his

The latter, surrounded by books and papersfor, since his dismissal of the girl, he had worked with great

"There's an old gentleman to see you, sir; he says you know him; his name is Creed."

Appearing suddenly from behind the servant in the doorway, the old butler came in at a stealthy amble; he

looked round, and, seeing a chair, placed his hat beneath it, then advanced, with nose and spectacles

upturned, to Hilary. Catching sight of the tray, he stopped, checked in an evident desire to communicate his

"Oh dear," he said, "I'm intrudin' on your luncheon. I can wait; I'll go and sit in the passage."

Hilary, however, shook his hand, faded now to skin and bone, and motioned him to a chair.

Creed took off his spectacles, wiped them to help himself to see more clearly what he had to say, and put

"It's aconcerning of these domestic matters," he said. "I come up to tell yer, knowing as you're interested in

The old butler related the facts of the assault. "I took 'is bayonet away from him," he ended; "he didn't

"I've no conscience of it," replied Creed. "His wife, she's gone the wrong way to work with him, in my

opinion, but that's particular to women. She's agoaded of him respecting a certain party. I don't say but what

that young girl's no better than what she ought to be; look at her profession, and her a country girl, too! She

must be what she oughtn't to. But he ain't the sort o' man you can treat like that. You can't get thorns from

figs; you can't expect it from the lower orders. They only give him a month, considerin' of him bein' wounded

in the war. It'd been more if they'd aknown he was a hankerin' after that young girla married man like

Hilary's face had assumed its retired expression. 'I cannot go into that with you,' it seemed to say.

Quick to see the change, Creed rose. "But I'm intrudin' on your dinner," he said"your luncheon, I should

say. The woman goes on irritatin' of him, but he must expect of that, she bein' his wife. But what a

misfortune! He'll be back again in no time, and what'll happen then? It won't improve him, shut up in one of

them low prisons!" Then, raising his old face to Hilary: "Oh dear! It's like awalkin' on a black night, when ye

The impression made on him by the old butler's recital was queerly twofold; his more fastidious side felt

distinct relief that he had severed connection with an episode capable of developments so sordid and

conspicuous. But all the side of himand Hilary was a complicated productwhich felt compassion for the

helpless, his suppressed chivalry, in fact, had also received its fillip. The old butler's references to the girl

showed clearly how the hands of all men and women were against her. She was that pariah, a young girl

To recompense "Westminister" for the loss of his day's work, to make a dubious statement that nights were

never so black as they appeared to be, was all that he could venture to do. Creed hesitated in the doorway.

"Oh dear," he said, "there's aone thing that the woman was asaying that I've forgot to tell you. It's

aconcernin' of what this 'ere man was boastin' in his rage. 'Let them,' he says, 'as is responsive for the movin'

of her look out,' he says; 'I ain't done with them!' That's conspiracy, I should think!"

Smiling away this diagnosis of Hughs' words, Hilary shook the old man's withered hand, and closed the door.

Sitting down again at his writingtable, he buried himself almost angrily in his work. But the queer,

halfpleasurable, fevered feeling, which had been his, since the night he walked down Piccadilly, and met the

image of the little model, was unfavourable to the austere process of his thoughts.

Keeping his hand, fragile and veined and chill, under her own warm grasp, Bianca answered: "Lonely."

"Loneliness," he said, "is man's chief fault"; and seeing his pen lying on the desk, he tried to lift his hand.

Bianca held it down. At that hot clasp something seemed to stir in Mr. Stone. His cheeks grew pink.

Mr. Stone hesitated. Then his lips resolutely touched her eye. "It is wet," he said. He seemed for a moment

struggling to grasp the meaning of moisture in connection with the human eye. Soon his face again became

serene. "The heart," he said, "is a dark well; its depth unknown. I have lived eighty years. I am still drawing

This time Mr. Stone looked at his daughter anxiously, and suddenly spoke, as if afraid that if he waited he

Bianca put her face down to his tweed sleeve. "How nice your coat smells!" she murmured.

Mr. Stone followed her. "Why?" he said. Then, grasping his brow, he added: "If it would do you any good,

"If that is true," he said, following out his thoughts, "it must be due to the sex instinct not yet quite extinct. It

is stated that the blackcock will dance before his females to a great age, though I have never seen it."

"If you dance before her," said Bianca, with her face averted, "can't you even talk to me?"

There was a silence, and he began to pace the room. Bianca, by the empty fireplace, watched a shower of rain

"This is the time of year," said Mr. Stone suddenly; "when lambs leap off the ground with all four legs at a

time." He paused as though for an answer; then, out of the silence, his voice rose againit sounded different:

"There is nothing in Nature more symptomatic of that principle which should underlie all life. Live in the

future; regret nothing; leap! A lamb which has left earth with all four legs at once is the symbol of true life.

That she must come down again is but an inevitable accident. 'In those days men were living on their pasts.

They leaped with one, or, at the most, two legs at a time; they never left the ground, or in leaving, they

wished to know the reason why. It was this paralysis'"Mr. Stone did not pause, but, finding himself close

beside his desk, took up his pen"'it was this paralysis of the leaping nerve which undermined their

progress. Instead of millions of leaping lambs, ignorant of why they leaped, they were a flock of sheep lifting

up one leg and asking whether it was or was not worth their while to lift another.'"

The words were followed by a silence, broken only by the scratching of the quill with which Mr. Stone was

Having finished, he again began to pace the room, and coming suddenly on his daughter, stopped short.

Touching her shoulder timidly, he said: "I was talking to you, I think, my dear; where were we?"

"Yes, yes," said Mr. Stone, "I remember. You must not let me wander from the point again."

"Lambs," said Mr. Stone, "remind me at times of that young girl who comes to copy for me. I make her skip

to promote her circulation before tea. I myself do this exercise." Leaning against the wall, with his feet twelve

inches from it, he rose slowly on his toes. "Do you know that exercise? It is excellent for the calves of the

legs, and for the lumbar regions." So saying, Mr. Stone left the wall, and began again to pace the room; the

whitewash had also left the wall, and clung in a large square patch on his shaggy coat. "I have seen sheep in

Spring," he said, "actually imitate their lambs in rising from the ground with all four legs at once." He stood

"If Life is not all Spring, it is of no value whatsoever; better to die, and to begin again. Life is a tree putting

on a new green gown; it is a young moon risingno, that is not so, we do not see the young moon risingit

Bianca cried out sharply: "Don't, Father! Don't talk like that; it's so untrue! Life is all autumn, it seems to

"That is a foul heresy," he stammered; "I cannot listen to it. Life is the cuckoo's song; it is a hillside bursting

He was trembling like a leaf in the wind he spoke of, and Bianca moved hastily towards him, holding out her

arms. Suddenly his lips began to move; she heard him mutter: "I have lost force; I will boil some milk. I must

Always that girl! And without again attracting his attention she went away. As she passed out through the

garden she saw him at the window holding a cup of milk, from which the steam was rising.

Like water, human character will find its level; and Nature, with her way of fitting men to their environment,

had made young Martin Stone what Stephen called a "Sanitist." There had been nothing else for her to do

This young man had come into the social scheme at a moment when the conception of existence as a present

life corrected by a life to come, was tottering; and the conception of the world as an upper class preserve

Losing his father and mother at an early age, and brought up till he was fourteen by Mr. Stone, he had formed

the habit of thinking for himself. This had rendered him unpopular, and added force to the essential

singleheartedness transmitted to him through his grandfather. A particular aversion to the sights and scenes

of suffering, which had caused him as a child to object to killing flies, and to watching rabbits caught in traps,

had been regulated by his training as a doctor. His fleshly horror of pain and ugliness was now disciplined,

his spiritual dislike of them forced into a philosophy. The peculiar chaos surrounding all young men who live

in large towns and think at all, had made him gradually reject all abstract speculation; but a certain fire of

aspiration coming, we may suppose, through Mr. Stone, had nevertheless impelled him to embrace something

with all his might. He had therefore embraced health. And living, as he did, in the Euston Road, to be in

Late in the afternoon of the day when Hughs had committed his assault, having three hours of respite from

his hospital, Martin dipped his face and head into cold water, rubbed them with a corrugated towel, put on a

hard bowler hat, took a thick stick in his hand, and went by Underground to Kensington.

With his usual cool, highhanded air he entered his aunt's house, and asked for Thyme. Faithful to his

definite, if somewhat crude theory, that Stephen and Cecilia and all their sort were amateurs, he never

inquired for them, though not unfrequently he would, while waiting, stroll into Cecilia's drawingroom, and

let his sarcastic glance sweep over the pretty things she had collected, or, lounging in some luxurious chair,

Thyme soon came down. She wore a blouse of some blue stuff bought by Cecilia for the relief of people in

the Balkan States, a skirt of purplish tweed woven by Irish gentlewomen in distress, and held in her hand an

Thyme raised her chin; that lazy movement showed her round, creamy neck in all its beauty.

When they had purchased a postal order for ten shillings, placed it in the envelope addressed to Mrs. Tallents

Smallpeace, and passed the hundred doors of Messrs. Rose and Thorn, Martin said: "I'm going to see what

that precious amateur has done about the baby. If he hasn't moved the girl, I expect to find things in a pretty

"Just remember," she said, "that I don't want to go there. I don't see the good, when there's such a tremendous

"It's not my case. You're so disgustingly unfair, Martin. I don't like those people."

Thyme flushed crimson. "Look here!" she said, speaking with dignity, "I don't care what you call me, but I

Martin did not reply, looking sideways at Thyme with his queer, protective smile. They were passing through

"Look here!" he said suddenly; "a man like Hilary's interest in all this sort of thing is simply sentimental. It's

on his nerves. He takes philanthropy just as he'd take sulphonal for sleeplessness."

"Well," she said, "it's just as much on your nerves. You see it from the point of view of health; he sees it from

"These houses and these people," he said, "are in the wayin the way of you and me, and everyone."

Thyme's eyes followed that slow, sweeping movement of her cousin's hand. It seemed to fascinate her.

And she reared her head up, looking from side to side, as if to show him that she, too, could sweep away

Thus, in the hypnotic silence of high thoughts, the two young "Sanitists" arrived in Hound Street.

In the doorway of No. 1 the son of the lame woman, Mrs. Budgenthe thin, white youth as tall as Martin,

but not so broadstood, smoking a dubiouslooking cigarette. He turned his lacklustre, jeering gaze on the

"Who d'you want?" he said. "If it's the girl, she's gone away, and left no address."

The young man coughed. "Righto! You'll find her; but for him, apply Wormwood Scrubs."

"Stickin' her through the wrist with his bayonet;" and the young man let a long, luxurious fume of smoke

Martin regarded the young man, unmoved. "That stuff' you're smoking's rank," he said. "Have some of mine;

I'll show you how to make them. It'll save you one and three per pound of baccy, and won't rot your lungs."

Taking out his pouch, he rolled a cigarette. The white young man bent his dull wink on Thyme, who,

Mounting the narrow stairs that smelt of walls and washing and red herrings, Thyme spoke: "Now, you see, it

wasn't so simple as you thought. I don't want to go up; I don't want to see her. I shall wait for you here." She

took her stand in the open doorway of the little model's empty room. Martin ascended to the second floor.

There, in the front room, Mrs. Hughs was seen standing with the baby in her arms beside the bed. She had a

frightened and uncertain air. After examining her wrist, and pronouncing it a scratch, Martin looked long at

the baby. The little creature's toes were stiffened against its mother's waist, its eyes closed, its tiny fingers

crisped against her breast. While Mrs. Hughs poured forth her tale, Martin stood with his eyes still fixed on

the baby. It could not be gathered from his face what he was thinking, but now and then he moved his jaw, as

though he were suffering from toothache. In truth, by the look of Mrs. Hughs and her baby, his recipe did not

seem to have achieved conspicuous success. He turned away at last from the trembling, nerveless figure of

the seamstress, and went to the window. Two pale hyacinth plants stood on the inner edge; their perfume

penetrated through the other savours of the roomand very strange they looked, those twin, starved children

"Yes, sir," murmured Mrs. Hughs. "I brought them upstairs. I didn't like to see the poor things left to die."

>From the bitter accent of these words Martin understood that they had been the little model's.

"Put them outside," he said; "they'll never live in here. They want watering, too. Where are your saucers?"

Mrs. Hughs laid the baby down, and, going to the cupboard where all the household gods were kept, brought

out two old, dirty saucers. Martin raised the plants, and as he held them, from one close, yellow petal there

rose up a tiny caterpillar. It reared a green, transparent body, feeling its way to a new restingplace. The little

writhing shape seemed, like the wonder and the mystery of life, to mock the young doctor, who watched it

"Look here!" he said, "it's no good crying over spilt milk. What you've got to do is to set to and get some

"Don't say it in that sort of way," said Martin; "you must rise to the occasion."

"You want a tonic. Take this halfcrown, and get in a dozen pints of stout, and drink one every day."

Motionless, where it had been placed against the footrail of the bed, the baby sat with its black eyes closed.

"It slept all night; but today, of course, I've been all torn to pieces; my milk's gone. I've tried it with the

Martin bent down to the baby's face, and put his finger on its chin; bending lower yet, he raised the eyelid of

At the word "dead" Mrs. Hughs, stooping behind him, snatched the baby to her throat. With its drooping head

close to her she, she clutched and rocked it without sound. Full five minutes this desperate mute struggle with

eternal silence lastedthe feeling, and warming, and breathing on the little limbs. Then, sitting down, bent

almost double over her baby, she moaned. That single sound was followed by utter silence. The tread of

footsteps on the creaking stairs broke it. Martin, rising from his crouching posture by the bed, went towards

Martin, understanding that he meant the little model, put his finger to his lips, and, pointing to Mrs. Hughs,

Mr. Stone's face underwent the queer discoloration which marked the sudden summoning of his far thoughts.

He stood there a long time gazing at the baby, and at the dark head bending over it with such despair. At last

Mrs. Hughs looked up, and, seeing that old face, with its hollows and thin silver hair, she spoke:

Mr. Stone put out his veined and fragile hand, and touched the baby's toes. "He is flying; he is everywhere; he

Thyme followed him as he walked on tiptoe down stairs which seemed to creak the louder for his caution.

Martin sat on, with the mother and her baby, in the close, still room, where, like strange visiting spirits, came

Mr. Stone and Thyme, going out, again passed the tall, white young man. He had thrown away the

handmade cigarette, finding that it had not enough saltpetre to make it draw, and was smoking one more

suited to the action of his lungs. He directed towards them the same lack lustre, jeering stare.

Unconscious, seemingly, of where he went, Mr. Stone walked with his eyes fixed on space. His head jerked

Scared at these movements, Thyme took his arm. The touch of that soft young arm squeezing his own

"In those places...." he said, "in those streets! ...I shall not see the flowering of the aloeI shall not see the

living peace! 'As with dogs, each couched over his proper bone, so men were living then!'" Thyme, watching

him askance, pressed still closer to his side, as though to try and warm him back to every day.

'Oh!' went her guttered thoughts. 'I do wish grandfather would say something one could understand. I wish he

"I have seen a vision of fraternity. A barren hillside in the sun, and on it a man of stone talking to the wind. I

"If the poor baby had lived," she stammered out, "it would have grown up.... It's all for the best, isn't it?"

"Everything is for the best," said Mr. Stone. "'In those days men, possessed by thoughts of individual life,

made moan at death, careless of the great truth that the world was one unending song.'"

Thyme thought: 'I have never seen him as bad as this!' She drew him on more quickly. With deep relief she

Stephen, who was still walking with his springy step, though he had come on foot the whole way from the

Temple, hailed them with his hat. It was tall and black, and very shiny, neither quite oval nor positively

round, and had a little curly brim. In this and his black coat, cut so as to show the front of him and cover the

behind, he looked his best. The costume suited his long, rather narrow face, corrugated by two short parallel

lines slanting downwards from his eyes and nostrils on either cheek; suited his neat, thin figure and the

closelipped corners of his mouth. His permanent appointment in the world of Law had ousted from his life

(together with all uncertainty of income) the need for putting on a wig and taking his moustache off; but he

Mr. Stone gave him no answer, but passed into the drawingroom, and sat down on the verge of the first

"My child," he said softly, "what have you brought the old boy here for? If there happens to be anything of

Stephen, who was very fond of her, saw that for some reason she was not herself. He examined her with

unwonted gravity. Thyme turned away from him. He heard, to his alarm, a little gulping sound.

"I've seen a baby dead," she cried in a quick, hard voice; and, without another word, she ran upstairs.

In Stephen there was a horror of emotion amounting almost to disease. It would have been difficult to say

when he had last shown emotion; perhaps not since Thyme was born, and even then not to anyone except

himself, having first locked the door, and then walked up and down, with his teeth almost meeting in the

mouthpiece of his favourite pipe. He was unaccustomed, too, to witness this weakness on the part of other

people. His looks and speech unconsciously discouraged it, so that if Cecilia had been at all that way inclined,

she must long ago have been healed. Fortunately, she never had been, having too much distrust of her own

feelings to give way to them completely. And Thyme, that healthy product of them both, at once younger for

her age, and older, than they had ever been, with her incapacity for nonsense, her love for open air and

factsthat fresh, rising plant, so elastic and so saneshe had never given them a single moment of

Stephen, close to his hatrack, felt soreness in his heart. Such blows as Fortune had dealt, and meant to deal

him, he had borne, and he could bear, so long as there was nothing in his own manner, or in that of others, to

Hurriedly depositing his hat, he ran to Cecilia. He still preserved the habit of knocking on her door before he

entered, though she had never, so far, answered, "Don't come in!" because she knew his knock. The custom

gave, in fact, the measure of his idealism. What he feared, or what he thought he feared, after nineteen years

of unchecked entrance, could never have been ascertained; but there it was, that flower of something formal

This time, for once, he did not knock, and found Cecilia hooking up her teagown and looking very sweet.

"What's this, Cis," he said, "about a baby dead? Thyme's quite upset about it; and your dad's in the

With the quick instinct that was woven into all her gentle treading, Cecilia's thoughts flewshe could not

The thought passed darkly through Stephen's mind: 'Those people again! What now?' He did not express it,

A short silence followed, then Cecilia said suddenly: "Did you say that father was in the drawingroom?

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 sat down on the bed and waited, drawing her fingers through the girl's hair, which had fallen loose;

and while she sat there she experienced all that sore, strange feelingas of being skinned which comes to

one who watches the emotion of someone near and dear without knowing the exact cause.

To see one's child cry was bad enough, but to see her cry when that child's whole creed of honour and

conduct for years past had precluded this relief as unfeminine, was worse than disconcerting.

"I don't know what's the matter with me," she said, choking. "It's it's purely physical"

Thyme faced round; there was a sort of passion in her darkened eyes, rimmed pink with grief, and in all her

Clasping her hands together in her lap, Thyme muttered: "He called him 'Little brother.'"

A tear trickled down Cecilia's cheek, and dropped on her daughter's wrist. Feeling that it was not her own

Oh, go away, Mother, please. I'm only making you feel bad, too. You'd better go and see to grandfather."

Cecilia saw that she would cry no more, and since it was the sight of tears which had so disturbed her, she

gave the girl a little hesitating stroke, and went away. Outside she thought: 'How dreadfully unlucky and

pathetic; and there's father in the drawing room!' Then she hurried down to Mr. Stone.

He was sitting where he had first placed himself, motionless. It struck her suddenly how frail and white he

looked. In the shadowy light of her drawingroom, he was almost like a spirit sitting there in his grey

tweedsilvery from head to foot. Her conscience smote her. It is written of the very old that they shall pass,

by virtue of their long travel, out of the country of the understanding of the young, till the natural affections

are blurred by creeping mists such as steal across the moors when the sun is going down.

Cecilia's heart ached with a little ache for all the times she had thought: 'If father were only not quite so';

for all the times she had shunned asking him to come to them, because he was so; for all the silences she

and Stephen had maintained after he had spoken; for all the little smiles she had smiled. She longed to go and

kiss his brow, and make him feel that she was aching. But she did not dare; he seemed so far away; it would

Coming down the room, and putting her slim foot on the fender with a noise, so that if possible he might both

Mr. Stone looked up, and seeing somebody who seemed to be his elder daughter, answered "Yes, my dear?"

"Are you sure you're feeling quite the thing? Thyme said she thought seeing that poor baby had upset you."

"I have had no tea," he said. Then, with a sudden, anxious look at his daughter: "The little girl has not come

"It is now two days," said Mr. Stone, "and she has left her room in that housein that street."

"Yes," said Mr. Stone. "She is like" His eyes wandered round the room as though seeking something

which would help him to express himself. They fixed themselves on the far wall. Cecilia, following their

gaze, saw a little solitary patch of sunlight dancing and trembling there. It had escaped the screen of trees and

houses, and, creeping through some chink, had quivered in. "She is like that," said Mr. Stone, pointing with

'How dreadful this is!' Cecilia thought. 'I never expected him to feel it, and yet I can do nothing!' Hastily she

asked: "Would it do if you had Thyme to copy for you? I'm sure she'd love to come."

Cecilia could think of nothing now to say but: "Would you like to wash your hands, dear?"

"Then will you go up to Stephen's dressingroom for hot water, or will you wash them in the lavatory?"

When he had gone Cecilia thought: 'Oh dear, how shall I get through the evening? Poor darling, he is so

At the sounding of the dinnergong they all assembledThyme from her bedroom with cheeks and eyes still

pink, Stephen with veiled inquiry in his glance, Mr. Stone from freedom in the lavatoryand sat down,

screened, but so very little, from each other by sprays of white lilac. Looking round her table, Cecilia felt

rather like one watching a dewbelled cobweb, most delicate of all things in the world, menaced by the

Both soup and fish had been achieved, however, before a word was spoken. It was Stephen who, after taking

Cecilia heard that question with something like dismay. It was so bald; for, however inconvenient Mr. Stone's

absorption in his manuscript might be, her delicacy told her how precious beyond life itself that book was to

"It is not white; it is really pink. The test is simple." He paused with his eyes fixed on the lilac.

'Ah!' thought Cecilia, 'now, if I can only keep him on natural science he used to be so interesting.'

"They have but a single soul. In those days men divided, and subdivided them, oblivious of the one pale spirit

She saw one of her husband's eyes rise visibly. Stephen did so hate one thing to be confounded with another.

"Oh, come, sir," she heard him say; "you don't surely tell us that dandelions and roses have the same pale

Thyme, leaning over to her mother, whispered "Oh, Mother, don't let grandfather be queer; I can't bear it

"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

"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 broadif I can remember I will measure it; the eyes are of a

"I do not know," Mr. Stone resumed, speaking in a faroff voice, "whether she would be virtuous."

Cecilia heard Stephen drinking sherry; Thyme, too, was drinking something; she herself drank nothing, but,

By the almost vindictive expression on Stephen's face she saw, however, that her failure had decided him to

resume command of the situation. "Talking of brotherhood, sir," he said dryly, "would you go so far as to say

Mr. Stone, on whose plate these two vegetables reposed, looked almost painfully confused.

"It's true," said Stephen; "the same pale spirit can be extracted from them both."

"You laugh at me," he said. "I cannot help it; but you must not laugh at lifethat is blasphemy."

Before the piercing wistfulness of that sudden gaze Stephen was abashed. Cecilia saw him bite his lower lip.

"We're talking too much," he said; "we really must let your father eat!" And the rest of the dinner was

When Mr. Stone, refusing to be accompanied, had taken his departure, and Thyme had gone to bed, Stephen

withdrew to his study. This room, which had a different air from any other portion of the house, was sacred to

his private life. Here, in specially designed compartments, he kept his golf clubs, pipes, and papers. Nothing

was touched by anyone except himself, and twice a week by one particular housemaid. Here was no bust of

Socrates, no books in deerskin bindings, but a bookcase filled with treatises on law, Blue Books, reviews, and

the novels of Sir Walter Scott; two black oak cabinets stood side by side against the wall filled with small

drawers. When these cabinets were opened and the drawers drawn forward there emerged a scent of metal

polish. If the greenbaize covers of the drawers were lifted, there were seen coins, carefully arranged with

labelsas one may see plants growing in rows, each with its little name tied on. To these tidy rows of

shining metal discs Stephen turned in moments when his spirit was fatigued. To add to them, touch them,

read their names, gave him the sweet, secret feeling which comes to a man who rubs one hand against the

other. Like a dramdrinker, Stephen drankin little dosesof the feeling these coins gave him. They were

his creative work, his history of the world. To them he gave that side of him which refused to find its full

expression in summarising law, playing golf, or reading the reviews; that side of a man which aches, he

knows not wherefore, to construct something ere he die. From Rameses to George IV. the coins lay within

Putting on an old black velvet jacket laid out for him across a chair, and lighting the pipe that he could never

bring himself to smoke in his formal dinner clothes, he went to the righthand cabinet, and opened it. He

stood with a smile, taking up coins one by one. In this particular drawer they were of the best Byzantine

dynasty, very rare. He did not see that Cecilia had stolen in, and was silently regarding him. Her eyes seemed

doubting at that moment whether or no she loved him who stood there touching that other mistress of his

thoughtsthat other mistress with whom he spent so many evening hours. The little greenbaize cover fell.

"My dear child," he answered in his special voice, which, like champagne, seemed to have been dried by

"But I can see he really is upset about it; he's looking so awfully white and thin."

"He ought to give up that bathing in the Serpentine. At his age it's monstrous. And surely any other girl will

Stephen shrugged his shoulders. It had happened to him on one occasion to be present when Mr. Stone was

declaiming some pages of his manuscript. He had never forgotten the discomfort of the experience. "That

crazy stuff," as he had called it to Cecilia afterwards, had remained on his mind, heavy and damp, like a cold

linseed poultice. His wife's father was a crank, and perhaps even a little more than a crank, a wee bit

"touched"that she couldn't help, poor girl; but any allusion to his cranky produce gave Stephen pain. Nor

Stephen slid the drawer back into its socket. There was dry decision in that gesture.

"Look here! Let's exercise a little common sense; it's been sacrificed to sentiment all through this wretched

"The thing," went on Stephen, "has been a mistake from first to last. It's all very well up to a certain point, but

after that it becomes destructive of all comfort. It doesn't do to let these people come into personal contact

Cecilia's eyes were lowered, as though she did not dare to let him see her thoughts.

"He is not," said Stephen dryly; "we had a pretty good instance of that this evening. But Hilary and your

sister are. There's something most distasteful to me, too, about Thyme's going about slumming. You see what

she's been let in for this afternoon. The notion of that baby being killed through the man's treatment of his

wife, and that, no doubt, arising from the girl's leaving them, is most repulsive!"

To these words Cecilia answered with a sound almost like a gasp. "I hadn't thought of that. Then we're

Stephen stared; he regretted sincerely that his legal habit of mind had made him put the case so clearly.

"I can't imagine," he said, almost violently, "what possesses everybody! Weresponsible! Good gracious!

"Thyme has been telling me about that poor little thing. It seems so dreadful, and I can't get rid of the feeling

"My dear old girl," he said, "I'd no idea that you were run down like this. Tomorrow's Thursday, and I can

Cecilia quivered; for a moment it seemed that she was about to burst out crying. Stephen stroked her shoulder

steadily. Cecilia must have felt his dread; she struggled loyally with her emotion.

"And don't you worry, dear," he said, "about your dad; he'll have forgotten the whole thing in a day or two;

he's far too wrapped up in his book. Now trot along to bed; I'll be up directly."

Before going out Cecilia looked back at him. How wonderful was that look, which Stephen did notperhaps

intentionallysee. Mocking, almost hating, and yet thanking him for having refused to let her be emotional

and yield herself up for once to what she felt, showing him too how clearly she saw through his own

masculine refusal to be made to feel, and how she halfadmired itall this was in that look, and more. Then

Stephen glanced quickly at the door, and, pursing up his lips, frowned. He threw the window open, and

'If I don't look out,' he thought, 'I shall be having her mixed up with this. I was an ass ever to have spoken to

old Hilary. I ought to have ignored the matter altogether. It's a lesson not to meddle with people in those

Outside, under the soft black foliage of the Square, beneath the slim sickle of the moon, two cats were

hunting after happiness; their savage cries of passion rang in the blossomscented air like a cry of dark

humanity in the jungle of dim streets. Stephen, with a shiver of disgust, for his nerves were on edge, shut the

It was not left to Cecilia alone to remark how very white Mr. Stone looked in these days.

The wild force which every year visits the world, driving with its soft violence snowy clouds and their dark

shadows, breaking through all crusts and sheaths, covering the earth in a fierce embrace; the wild force which

turns form to form, and with its million leapings, swift as the flight of swallows and the arrowdarts of the

rain, hurries everything on to sweet minglingthis great, wild force of universal life, socalled the Spring,

had come to Mr. Stone, like new wine to some old bottle. And Hilary, to whom it had come, too, watching

him every morning setting forth with a rough towel across his arm, wondered whether the old man would not

this time leave his spirit swimming in the chill waters of the Serpentineso near that spirit seemed to

Four days had gone by since the interview at which he had sent away the little model, and life in his

householdthat quiet backwater choked with liliesseemed to have resumed the tranquillity enjoyed

before this intrusion of rude life. The paper whiteness of Mr. Stone was the only patent evidence that

anything disturbing had occurred that and certain feelings about which the strictest silence was preserved.

On the morning of the fifth day, seeing the old man stumble on the level flagstones of the garden, Hilary

finished dressing hastily, and followed. He overtook him walking forward feebly beneath the candelabra of

flowering chestnuttrees, with a hailshower striking white on his high shoulders; and, placing himself

"Surely you don't mean to bathe during a hail storm, sir! Make an exception this once. You're not looking

Mr. Stone shook his head; then, evidently following out a thought which Hilary had interrupted, he remarked:

"The sentiment that men call honour is of doubtful value. I have not as yet succeeded in relating it to

"In so far," said Mr. Stone, "as it consists in fidelity to principle, one might assume it worthy of conjunction.

The difficulty arises when we consider the nature of the principle .... There is a family of young thrushes in

the garden. If one of them finds a worm, I notice that his devotion to that principle of selfpreservation which

prevails in all low forms of life forbids his sharing it with any of the other little thrushes."

"So it is, I fear," he said, "with 'honour.' In those days men looked on women as thrushes look on worms."

He paused, evidently searching for a word; and Hilary, with a faint smile, said:

Mr. Stone observed him with surprise. "I did not perceive that it was you," he said. "I have to avoid brain

They had crossed the road dividing the Gardens from the Park, and, seeing that Mr. Stone had already seen

the water where he was about to bathe, and would now see nothing else, Hilary stopped beside a little lonely

birchtree. This wild, small, graceful visitor, who had long bathed in winter, was already draping her bare

limbs in a scarf of green. Hilary leaned against her cool, pearly body. Below were the chilly waters, now

grey, now starchblue, and the pale forms of fifteen or twenty bathers. While he stood shivering in the frozen

wind, the sun, bursting through the hailcloud, burned his cheeks and hands. And suddenly he heard, clear,

but far off, the sound which, of all others, stirs the hearts of men: "Cuckoo, cuckoo!"

Four times over came the unexpected call. Whence had that ill advised, indelicate grey bird flown into this

great haunt of men and shadows? Why had it come with its arrowy flight and mocking cry to pierce the heart

and set it aching? There were trees enough outside the town, cloudswept hollows, tangled brakes of furze

just coming into bloom, where it could preside over the process of Spring. What solemn freak was this which

With a real spasm in his heart Hilary turned away from that distant bird, and went down to the water's edge.

Mr. Stone was swimming, slower than man had ever swum before. His silver head and lean arms alone were

visible, parting the water feebly; suddenly he disappeared. He was but a dozen yards from the shore; and

Hilary, alarmed at not seeing him reappear, ran in. The water was not deep. Mr. Stone, seated at the bottom,

was doing all he could to rise. Hilary took him by his bathingdress, raised him to the surface, and supported

him towards the land. By the time they reached the shore he could just stand on his legs. With the assistance

of a policeman, Hilary enveloped him in garments and got him to a cab. He had regained some of his vitality,

"I was not in as long as usual," he mused, as they passed out into the high road.

Mr. Stone, who shivered violently now that he was on his feet, turned his face up to the cabman.

Walking by himself, but closely watched by Hilary, Mr. Stone reached his room. He groped about him as

though not distinguishing objects too well through the crystal clearness of the fundamental flux.

"If I might advise you," said Hilary, "I would get back into bed for a few minutes. You seem a little chilly."

Mr. Stone, who was indeed shaking so that he could hardly stand, allowed Hilary to assist him into bed and

Hilary, who was also shivering, hastened to Bianca's room. She was just coming down, and exclaimed at

seeing him all wet. When he had told her of the episode she touched his shoulder.

He turned towards the bathroom, where Miranda stood, lifting a white foot. Compressing her lips, Bianca ran

downstairs. Startled by his tale, she would have taken his wet body in her arms; if the ghosts of innumerable

moments had not stood between. So this moment passed too, and itself became a ghost.

Mr. Stone, greatly to his disgust, had not succeeded in resuming work at ten o'clock. Failing simply because

he could not stand on his legs, he had announced his intention of waiting until halfpast three, when he

should get up, in preparation for the coming of the little girl. Having refused to see a doctor, or have his

temperature taken, it was impossible to tell precisely what degree of fever he was in. In his cheeks, just

visible over the blankets, there was more colour than there should have been; and his eyes, fixed on the

ceiling, shone with suspicious brilliancy. To the dismay of Bianca who sat as far out of sight as possible,

lest he should see her, and fancy that she was doing him a servicehe pursued his thoughts aloud:

"Wordswordsthey have taken away brotherhood!" Bianca shuddered, listening to that uncanny sound.

"'In those days of words they called it deathpale deathmors pallida. They saw that word like a gigantic

granite block suspended over them, and slowly coming down. Some, turning up their faces at the sight,

trembled painfully, awaiting their obliteration. Others, unable, while they still lived, to face the thought of

nothingness, inflated by some spiritual wind, and thinking always of their individual forms, called out

unceasingly that those selves of theirs would and must survive this wordthat in some fashion, which no

man could understand, each selfconscious entity reaccumulated after distribution. Drunk with this thought,

these, too, passed away. Some waited for it with grim, dry eyes, remarking that the process was molecular,

His voice ceased, and in place of it rose the sound of his tongue moistening his palate. Bianca, from behind,

placed a glass of barleywater to his lips. He drank it with a slow, clucking noise; then, seeing that a hand

held the glass, said: "Is that you? Are you ready for me? Follow. 'In those days no one leaped up to meet pale

riding Death; no one saw in her face that she was brotherhood incarnate; no one with a heart as light as

gossamer kissed her feet, and, smiling, passed into the Universe.'" His voice died away, and when next he

spoke it was in a quick, husky whisper: "I mustI must I must" There was silence; then he added:

Bianca placed them by his bed. The sight seemed to reassure him. He was once more silent.

For more than an hour after this he was so absolutely still that Bianca rose continually to look at him. Each

time, his eyes, wide open, were fixed on a little dark mark across the ceiling; his face had a look of the most

singular determination, as though his spirit were slowly, relentlessly, regaining mastery over his fevered

The flush had left his face, the brilliance had faded from his eyes; he looked just like a ghost. With a sort of

terror Bianca helped him out of bed. This weird display of mute white willpower was unearthly.

When he was dressed in his woollen gown and seated before the fire, she gave him a cup of strong beeftea,

While he was asleep Cecilia came, and the two sisters watched his slumber, and, watching it, felt nearer to

"B. if he seems to want that little girl while he's like this, don't you think she ought to come?"

Disconcerted by that sarcastic little speech, Cecilia was silent; then, summoning all her courage, she said:

"Here's the address, B. I've written it down for you;" and, with puckers of anxiety in her face, she left the

Bianca sat on in the old golden chair, watching the deep hollows beneath the sleeper's temples, the puffs of

breath stirring the silver round his mouth. Her ears burned crimson. Carried out of herself by the sight of that

old form, dearer to her than she had thought, fighting its great battle for the sake of its idea, her spirit grew all

tremulous and soft within her. With eagerness she embraced the thought of selfeffacement. It did not seem

to matter whether she were first with Hilary. Her spirit should so manifest its capacity for sacrifice that she

would be first with him through sheer nobility. At this moment she could almost have taken that common

little girl into her arms and kissed her. So would all disquiet end! Some harmonious messenger had fluttered

to her for a secondthe goldwinged bird of peace. In this sensuous exaltation her nerves vibrated like the

When Mr. Stone woke it was past three o'clock and Bianca at once handed him another cup of strong

"I feel," said Mr. Stone, "able to dictate what I have already writtennot more. Has she come?"

"I will not consent," he said, evidently to himself, "to be a drag on anyone. If that has come, then I must go!"

Bianca, placing herself beside him on her knees, pressed her hot cheek against his temple.

The sudden grim coherence of his last two sayings terrified Bianca more than all his feverish, utterances.

"I rely on your sitting quite still," she said, "while I go and find her." And with a feeling in her heart as

Some halfhour later Hilary slipped quietly in, and stood watching at the door. Mr. Stone, seated on the very

verge of his armchair, with his hands on its arms, was slowly rising to his feet, and slowly falling back again,

not once, but many times, practising a standing posture. As Hilary came into his line of sight, he said:

Hilary heard those words with bewilderment, and, sitting down on the other chair, waited.

"I have fancied," said Mr. Stone, looking at him wistfully, "that when we pass away from life we may

"It is not tenable," said Mr. Stone. "But it is restful. The wind is everywhere and nowhere, and nothing can be

hidden from it. When I have missed that little girl, I have tried, in a sense, to become the wind; but I have

His eyes left Hilary's face, whose mournful smile he had not noticed, and fixed themselves on the bright fire.

"'In those days,"' he said, "'men's relation to the eternal airs was the relation of a billion little separate

draughts blowing against the southwest wind. They did not wish to merge themselves in that soft,

moonuttered sigh, but blew in its face through crevices, and cracks, and keyholes, and were borne away on

He again tried to stand, evidently wishing to get to his desk to record this thought, but, failing, looked

Hilary rose and brought him paper and a pencil. In bending, he saw that Mr. Stone's eyes were dim with

moisture. This sight affected him so that he was glad to turn away and fetch a book to form a writingpad.

When Mr. Stone had finished, he sat back in his chair with closed eyes. A supreme silence reigned in the bare

room above those two men of different generations and of such strange dissimilarity of character. Hilary

"I heard the cuckoo sing today," he said, almost in a whisper, lest Mr. Stone should be asleep.

Even as he spoke there was heard by Hilary a faint tapping on the door. He rose and opened it. The little

That same afternoon in High Street, Kensington, "Westminister," with his coatcollar raised against the

inclement wind, his old hat spotted with rain, was drawing at a clay pipe and fixing his iron rimmed gaze on

those who passed him by. It had been a day when singularly few as yet had bought from him his faintly

greentinged journal, and the low class of fellow who sold the other evening prints had especially

exasperated him. His single mind, always torn to some extent between an ingrained loyalty to his employers

and those politics of his which differed from his paper's, had vented itself twice since coming on his stand;

once in these words to the seller of "Pell Mells": "I stupulated with you not to come beyond the lamppost.

Don't you never speak to me againacrowdin' of me off my stand"; and once to the younger vendors of the

less expensive journals, thus: "Oh, you boys! I'll make you regret of it asnappin' up my customers under

my very nose! Wait until ye're old!" To which the boys had answered: "All right, daddy; don't you have a fit.

It was now his time for tea, but "Pell Mell" having gone to partake of this refreshment, he waited on, hoping

against hope to get a customer or two of that low fellow's. And while in black insulation he stood there a

"Oh," he said dryly, "it's you, is it?" His mind, with its incessant love of rank, knowing that she earned her

living as a handmaid to that disorderly establishment, the House of Art, had from the first classed her as

lower than a lady'smaid. Recent events had made him think of her unkindly. Her new clothes, which he had

not been privileged to see before, while giving him a sense of Sunday, deepened his moral doubts.

The little model's lower lip drooped more than ever. There were dark marks beneath her eyes; her face was

"I'm agoin' to the funeralBrompton Cemetery. Halfpast nine I leave the door. And that's abeginnin' at

"I can't help what he does," she said. "What should I want him for a man like that? It wouldn't be him I'd

want!" The genuine contempt in that sharp burst of anger impressed the aged butler.

"I'm not asayin' anything," he said; "it's all aone to me. I never mixes up with no other people's business.

But it's very ill convenient. I don't get my proper breakfast. That poor womanshe's half off her head.

When the baby's buried I'll have to go and look out for another room before he gets acomin' out."

The old butler looked at her. 'There's more stuff' in you,' he seemed to say, 'than ever I had thought.'

"I'm sorry about the poor little baby," said the little model in her stolid voice.

"Westminister" shook his head. "I never suspected him of goin' to live," he said.

The girl, biting the fingertip of her white cotton glove, was staring out at the traffic. Like a pale ray of light

entering the now dim cavern of the old man's mind, the thought came to Creed that he did not quite

understand her. He had in his time had occasion to class many young persons, and the feeling that he did not

quite know her class of person was like the sensation a bat might have, surprised by daylight.

'Well,' he thought, looking after her, 'your manners ain't improved by where you're living, nor your

appearance neither, for all your new clothes.' And for some time he stood thinking of the stare in her eyes and

Through the crystal clearness of the fundamental flux the mind could see at that same moment Bianca leaving

Her sensuous exaltation, her tremulous longing after harmony, had passed away; in her heart, strangely

mingled, were these two thoughts: 'If only she were a lady!' and, 'I am glad she is not a lady!'

Of all the dark and tortuous places of this life, the human heart is the most dark and tortuous; and of all

human hearts none are less clear, more intricate than the hearts of all that class of people among whom

Bianca had her being. Pride was a simple quality when joined with a simple view of life, based on the plain

philosophy of property; pride was no simple quality when the hundred paralysing doubts and aspirations of a

social conscience also hedged it round. In thus going forth with the full intention of restoring the little model

to her position in the household, her pride fought against her pride, and her woman's sense of ownership in

the man whom she had married wrestled with the acquired sentiments of freedom, liberality, equality, good

taste. With her spirit thus confused, and her mind so at variance with itself, she was really acting on the

She had run upstairs from Mr. Stone's room, and now walked fast, lest that instinct, the most physical,

perhaps, of allawakened by sights and sounds, and requiring constant nourishmentshould lose its force.

Rapidly, then, she made her way to the grey street in Bayswater where Cecilia had told her that the girl now

"Yes," she said; "she's out; but if you'd like to leave a note you could write in here. If you're looking for a

That modern faculty of pressing on an aching nerve was assuredly not lacking to Bianca. To enter the girl's

She looked round her. The mental vacuity of that little room! There was not one single thingwith the

exception of a torn copy of Tit Bitswhich suggested that a mind of any sort lived there. For all that,

"Yes," said the landlady, "she keeps her room tidy. Of course, she's a country girlcomes from down my

way." She said this with a dry twist of her grim, but not unkindly, features. "If it weren't for that," she went

Her hungry eyes, gazing at Bianca, had in them the aspirations of all Nonconformity.

"I'll give it her," the landlady said; "she'll be glad of it, I daresay. I see her sitting here. Girls like that, if

The impress of a form was, indeed, clearly visible on the red and yellow tasselled tapestry of the bed.

Before the garden gate the little model herself was gazing at the house, as if she had been there some time.

Approaching from across the road, Bianca had an admirable view of that young figure, now very trim and

neat, yet with something in its linesmore supple, perhaps, but less refinedwhich proclaimed her not a

lady; a something fundamentally undisciplined or disciplined by the material facts of life alone, rather than by

a secret creed of voluntary rules. It showed here and there in ways women alone could understand; above all,

in the way her eyes looked out on that house which she was clearly longing to enter. Not 'Shall I go in?' was

Suddenly she saw Bianca. The meeting of these two was very like the ordinary meeting of a mistress and her

maid. Bianca's face had no expression, except the faint, distant curiosity which seems to say: 'You are a

sealed book to me; I have always found you so. What you really think and do I shall never know.'

She held the garden gate open for the girl to pass through. Her feeling at that moment was one of slight

amusement at the futility of her journey. Not even this small piece of generosity was permitted her, it seemed.

The little model made an impulsive movement at such an unexpected question. Checking it at once, she

"You will find my father tired today; he has caught a chill. Don't let him read too much, please."

The little model seemed to try and nerve herself to make some statement, but, failing, passed into the house.

Bianca did not follow, but stole back into the garden, where the sun was still falling on a bed of wallflowers

at the far end. She bent down over these flowers till her veil touched them. Two wild bees were busy there,

buzzing with smoky wings, clutching with their black, tiny legs at the orange petals, plunging their black,

tiny tongues far down into the honeyed centres. The flowers quivered beneath the weight of their small dark

bodies. Bianca's face quivered too, bending close to them, nor making the slightest difference to their hunt.

Hilary, who, it has been seen, lived in thoughts about events rather than in events themselves, and to whom

crude acts and words had little meaning save in relation to what philosophy could make of them, greeted with

a startled movement the girl's appearance in the corridor outside Mr. Stone's apartment. But the little model,

who mentally lived very much from hand to mouth, and had only the philosophy of wants, acted differently.

She knew that for the last five days, like a spaniel dog shut away from where it feels it ought to be, she had

wanted to be where she was now standing; she knew that, in her new room with its rustred doors, she had

bitten her lips and fingers till blood came, and, as newly caged birds will flutter, had beaten her wings against

those walls with blue roses on a yellow ground. She remembered how she had lain, brooding, on that piece of

red and yellow tapestry, twisting its tassels, staring through halfclosed eyes at nothing.

There was something different in her look at Hilary. It had lost some of its childish devotion; it was bolder, as

if she had lived and felt, and brushed a good deal more down off her wings during those few days.

"Mrs. Dallison told me to come," she said. "I thought I might. Mr. Creed told me about him being in prison."

Hilary made way for her, and, following her into Mr. Stone's presence, shut the door.

Hearing herself called so unjustly by that name, the little model gushed deeply, and tried to speak. She

stopped at the smile on Hilary's face, and gazed from him to Mr. Stone and back again, the victim of mingled

Mr. Stone was seen to have risen to his feet, and to be very slowly moving towards his desk. He leaned both

arms on his papers for support, and, seeming to gather strength, began sorting out his manuscript.

Through the open window the distant music of a barrelorgan came drifting in. Faint, and much too slow,

was the sound of the waltz it played, but there was invitation, allurement, in that tune. The little model turned

towards it, and Hilary looked hard at her. The girl and that sound togetherthere, quite plain, was the music

The little model dipped her pen in ink. Her eyes crept towards the door, where Hilary was still standing with

"We are three days behind;" and very slowly he began dictating: "'Barbarous habits in those days, such as

the custom known as War '" His voice died away; it was apparent that his elbows, leaning on the desk,

Hilary moved the chair, and, taking him beneath the arms, lowered him gently into it.

Noticing that he was seated, Mr. Stone raised his manuscript and read on: "'were pursued regardless of

fraternity. It was as though a herd of horned cattle driven through green pastures to that Gate, where they

must meet with certain dissolution, had set about to prematurely gore and disembowel each other, out of a

passionate devotion to those individual shapes which they were so soon to lose. So mentribe against tribe,

and country against countryglared across the valleys with their ensanguined eyes; they could not see the

Slower and slower came his sentences, and as the last word died away he was heard to be asleep, breathing

through a tiny hole left beneath the eave of his moustache. Hilary, who had waited for that moment, gently

put the manuscript on the desk, and beckoned to the girl. He did not ask her to his study, but spoke to her in

"While Mr. Stone is like this he misses you. You will come, then, at present, please, so long as Hughs is in

A gleam of pleasure passing across her face was instantly obscured behind the cloud of her stolidity. Then, as

The little model flushed and quivered. 'You don't even look at me,' she seemed to say; 'you haven't spoken

Triumph at attracting his attention, fear of what she had admitted, supplication, and a halfdefiant

The little model, tremulous, like' a flower kissed by the sun after rain, went out with a light in her eyes.

The master of the house returned to Mr. Stone. Long he sat looking at the old man's slumber. "A thinker

meditating upon action!" So might Hilary's figure, with its thin face resting on its hand, a furrow between the

Following out the instinct planted so deeply in human nature for treating with the utmost care and at great

expense when dead those, who, when alive, have been served with careless parsimony, there started from the

door of No. 1 in Hound Street a funeral procession of three fourwheeled cabs. The first bore the little coffin,

on which lay a great white wreath (gift of Cecilia and Thyme). The second bore Mrs. Hughs, her son Stanley,

and Joshua Creed. The third bore Martin Stone. In the first cab Silence was presiding with the scent of lilies

over him who in his short life had made so little noise, the small grey shadow which had crept so quietly into

being, and, taking his chance when he was not noticed, had crept so quietly out again. Never had he felt so

restful, so much at home, as in that little common coffin, washed as he was to an unnatural whiteness, and

wrapped in his mother's only spare sheet. Away from all the strife of men he was Journeying to a greater

peace. His little aloeplant had flowered; and, between the open windows of the only carriage he had ever

been inside, the windwhich, who knows? he had perhaps becomestirred the fronds of fern and the

flowers of his funeral wreath. Thus he was going from that world where all men were his brothers.

>From the second cab the same wind was rigidly excluded, and there was silence, broken by the aged butler's

breathing. Dressed in his Newmarket coat, he was recalling with a certain sense of luxury past, journeys in

fourwheeled cabsoccasions when, seated beside a box corded and secured with sealingwax, he had

taken his master's plate for safety to the bank; occasions when, under a roof piled up with guns and boxes, he

had sat holding the "Honorable Bateson's" dog; occasions when, with some young person by his side, he had

driven at the tail of a baptismal, nuptial, or funeral cortege. These memories of past grandeur came back to

him with curious poignancy, and for some reason the words kept rising in his mind: 'For richer or poorer, for

better or worser, in health and in sick places, till death do us part.' But in the midst of the exaltation of these

recollections the old heart beneath his old red flannel chestprotectorthat companion of his

exiletwittering faintly at short intervals, made him look at the woman by his side. He longed to convey to

her some little of the satisfaction he felt in the fact that this was by no means the low class of funeral it might

have been. He doubted whether, with her woman's mind, she was getting all the comfort she could out of

three fourwheeled cabs and a wreath of lilies. The seamstress's thin face, with its pinched, passive look, was

indeed thinner, quieter, than ever. What she was thinking of he could not tell. There were so many things she

might be thinking of. She, too, no doubt, had seen her grandeur, if but in the solitary drive away from the

church where, eight years ago, she and Hughs had listened to the words now haunting Creed. Was she

thinking of that; of her lost youth and comeliness, and her man's dead love; of the long descent to

shadowland; of the other children she had buried; of Hughs in prison; of the girl that had "put a spell on him";

or only of the last precious tugs the tiny lips at rest in the first fourwheeled cab had given at her breast? Or

was she, with a nicer feeling for proportion, reflecting that, had not people been so kind, she might have had

The old butler could not tell, but hewhose one desire now, coupled with the wish to die outside a

workhouse, was to save enough to bury his own body without the interference of other peoplewas inclined

to think she must be dwelling on the brighter side of things; and, designing to encourage her, he said:

"Wonderful improvement in these 'ere fourwheel cabs! Oh dear, yes! I remember of them when they were

The seamstress answered in her quiet voice: "Very comfortable this is. Sit still, Stanley!" Her little son,

whose feet did not reach the floor, was drumming his heels against the seat. He stopped and looked at her,

The little boy turned his black eyes from his mother to him who had spoken last.

"It's a beautiful wreath," continued Creed. "I could smell of it all the way up the stairs. There's been no

expense spared; there's white laylock in itthat's a class of flower that's very extravagant."

A train of thought having been roused too strong for his discretion, he added: "I saw that young girl

On Mrs. Hughs' face, where till now expression had been buried, came such a look as one may see on the

face of an owlhard, watchful, cruel; harder, more cruel, for the softness of the big dark eyes.

"She'd show a better feeling," she said, "to keep a quiet tongue. Sit still, Stanley!"

Once more the little boy stopped drumming his heels, and shifted his stare from the old butler back to her

who spoke. The cab, which had seemed to hesitate and start, as though jibbing at something in the road,

resumed its ambling pace. Creed looked through the wellclosed window. There before him, so long that it

seemed to have no end, like a building in a nightmare, stretched that place where he did not mean to end his

days. He faced towards the horse again. The colour had deepened in his nose. He spoke:

"If they'd agive me my last edition earlier, 'stead of sending of it down after that lowclass feller's taken all

my customers, that'd make a difference to me o' two shillin's at the utmost in the week, and all clear savin's."

To these words, dark with hidden meaning, he received no answer save the drumming of the small boy's

heels; and, reverting to the subject he had been distracted from, he murmured: "She was awearin' of new

He was startled by the fierce tone of a voice he hardly knew. "I don't want to hear about her; she's not for

The old butler looked round askance. The seamstress was trembling violently. Her fierceness at such a

"Don't you be considerate of it," he said at last, summoning all his knowledge of the world; "she'll come to

her own place." And at the sight of a slow tear trickling over her burning cheek, he added hurriedly: "Think

of your babyI'll see yer through. Sit still, little boysit still! Ye're disturbin' of your mother."

Once more the little boy stayed the drumming of his heels to look at him who spoke; and the closed cab

In the third fourwheeled cab, where the windows again were wide open, Martin Stone, with his hands thrust

deep into the pockets of his coat, and his long legs crossed, sat staring at the roof, with a sort of twisted scorn

Just inside the gate, through which had passed in their time so many dead and living shadows, Hilary stood

waiting. He could probably not have explained why he had come to see this tiny shade committed to the

earthin memory, perhaps, of those two minutes when the baby's eyes had held parley with his own, or in

the wish to pay a mute respect to her on whom life had weighed so hard of late. For whatever reason he had

come, he was keeping quietly to one side. And unobserved, he, too, had his watcherthe little model,

Two men in rusty black bore the little coffin; then came the white robed chaplain; then Mrs. Hughs and her

little son; close behind, his head thrust forward with trembling movements from side to side, old Creed; and,

last of all, young Martin Stone. Hilary joined the young doctor. So the five mourners walked.

Before a small dark hole in a corner of the cemetery they stopped. On this forest of unflowered graves the sun

was falling; the east wind, with its faint reek, touched the old butler's plastered hair, and brought moisture to

the corners of his eyes, fixed with absorption on the chaplain. Words and thoughts hunted in his mind.

'He's gettin' Christian burial. Who gives this woman away? I do. Ashes to ashes. I never suspected him of

livin'.' The conning of the burial service, shortened to fit the passing of that tiny shade, gave him pleasurable

sensation; films came down on his eyes; he listened like some old parrot on its perch, his head a little to one

'Them as dies young,' he thought, 'goes straight to heaven. We trusts in Godall mortal men; his godfathers

Seeing the little coffin tremble above the hole, he craned his head still further forward. It sank; a smothered

sobbing rose. The old butler touched the arm in front of him with shaking fingers.

But, hearing the dry rattle of the earth, he took out his own handkerchief and put it to his nose.

'Yes, he's agone,' he thought; 'another little baby. Old men an' maidens, young men an' little children; it's

agoin' on all the time. Where 'e is now there'll be no marryin', no, nor givin' out in marriage; till death do us

The wind, sweeping across the filledin hole, carried the rustle of his husky breathing, the dry, smothered

sobbing of the seamstress, out across the shadows' graves, to those places, to those streets....

>From the baby's funeral Hilary and Martin walked away together, and far behind them, across the road, the

little model followed. For some time neither spoke; then Hilary, stretching out his hand towards a squalid

"They haunt us and drag us down. A long, dark passage. Is there a light at the far end, Martin?"

Hilary ceased to smile. "Cure me, then," he said, with sudden anger, "you man of health!"

The young "Sanitist's" sallow cheeks flushed. "Atrophy of the nerve of action," he muttered; "there's no cure

"Ah!" said Hilary: "All kinds of us want social progress in our different ways. You, your grandfather, my

brother, myself; there are four types for you. Will you tell me any one of us is the right man for the job? For

"And myopia is natural to you, Martin. Your prescription in this case has not been too successful, has it?"

"There you hit it. But answer me this question: Isn't a social conscience, broadly speaking, the result of

"Then, if those who have the social conscience and can see what is wrong have lost their power of action,

"There is light," he said at last, "in spite of all invertebrates. Goodbye! I've wasted enough time," and he

A few minutes later, coming out from Messrs. Rose and Thorn's, where he had gone to buy tobacco, he came

"I was at the funeral," she, said; and her face added plainly: 'I've followed you.' Uninvited, she walked on at

'This is not the same girl,' he thought, 'that I sent away five days ago. She has lost something, gained

There seemed such a stubborn purpose in her face and manner. It was like the look in a dog's eyes that says:

'Master, you thought to shut me up away from you; I know now what that is like. Do what you will, I mean in

This look, by its simplicity, frightened one to whom the primitive was strange. Desiring to free himself of his

companion, yet not knowing how, Hilary sat down in Kensington Gardens on the first bench they came to.

The little model sat down beside him. The quiet siege laid to him by this girl was quite uncanny. It was as

though someone were binding him with toy threads, swelling slowly into rope before his eyes. In this fear of

Hilary's there was at first much irritation. His fastidiousness and sense of the ridiculous were roused. What

did this little creature with whom he had no thoughts and no ideas in common, whose spirit and his could

never hope to meet, think that she could get from him? Was she trying to weave a spell over him too, with her

mute, stubborn adoration? Was she trying to change his protective weakness for her to another sort of

weakness? He turned and looked; she dropped her eyes at once, and sat still as a stone figure.

As in her spirit, so in her body, she was different; her limbs looked freer, rounder; her breath seemed stirring

her more deeply; like a flower of early June she was opening before his very eyes. This, though it gave him

pleasure, also added to his fear. The strange silence, in its utter naturalnessfor what could he talk about

with her?brought home to him more vividly than anything before, the barriers of class. All he thought of

was how not to be ridiculous! She was inviting him in some strange, unconscious, subtle way to treat her as a

woman, as though in spirit she had linked her round young arms about his neck, and through her halfclosed

lips were whispering the eternal call of sex to sex. And he, a middleaged and cultivated man, conscious of

everything, could not even speak for fear of breaking through his shell of delicacy. He hardly breathed,

disturbed to his very depths by the young figure sitting by his side, and by the dread of showing that

Beside the cultivated plant the selfsown poppy rears itself; round the stem of a smooth tree the honeysuckle

In her newfound form and purpose this girl had gained a strange, still power; she no longer felt it mattered

whether he spoke or looked at her; her instinct, piercing through his shell, was certain of the throbbing of his

The perception of this still power, more than all else, brought fear to Hilary. He need not speak; she would

not care! He need not even look at her; she had but to sit there silent, motionless, with the breath of youth

coming through her parted lips, and the light of youth stealing through her halfclosed eyes.

The new wine, if it does not break the old bottle, after fierce effervescence seethes and bubbles quietly.

It was so in Mr. Stone's old bottle, hour by hour and day by day, throughout the month. A pinker, robuster

look came back to his cheeks; his blue eyes, fixed on distance, had in them more light; his knees regained

their powers; he bathed, and, all unknown to him, for he only saw the waters he cleaved with his ineffably

slow stroke, Hilary and Martin, on alternate weeks, and keeping at a proper distance, for fear he should see

them doing him a service, attended at that function in case Mr. Stone should again remain too long seated at

the bottom of the Serpentine. Each morning after his cocoa and porridge he could be heard sweeping out his

room with extraordinary vigour, and as ten o'clock came near anyone who listened would remark a sound of

air escaping, as he moved up and down on his toes in preparation for the labours of the day. No letters, of

course, nor any newspapers disturbed the supreme and perfect selfcontainment of this life devoted to

Fraternityno letters, partly because he lacked a known address, partly because for years he had not

answered them; and with regard to newspapers, once a month he went to a Public Library, and could be seen

with the last four numbers of two weekly reviews before him, making himself acquainted with the habits of

those days, and moving his lips as though in prayer. At ten each morning anyone in the corridor outside his

room was startled by the whirr of an alarum clock; perfect silence followed; then rose a sound of shuffling,

whistling, rustling, broken by sharply muttered words; soon from this turbid lake of sound the articulate, thin

fluting of an old man's voice streamed forth. This, alternating with the squeak of a quill pen, went on till the

alarum clock once more went off. Then he who stood outside could smell that Mr. Stone would shortly eat; if,

stimulated by that scent, he entered; he might see the author of the "Book of Universal Brotherhood" with a

baked potato in one hand and a cup of hot milk in the other; on the table, too, the ruined forms of eggs,

tomatoes, oranges, bananas, figs, prunes, cheese, and honeycomb, which had passed into other forms already,

together with a loaf of wholemeal bread. Mr. Stone would presently emerge in his cottage woven tweeds,

and old hat of greenblack felt; or, if wet, in a long coat of yellow gaberdine, and sou'wester cap of the same

material; but always with a little osier fruitbag in his hand. Thus equipped, he walked down to Rose and

Thorn's, entered, and to the first man he saw handed the osier fruitbag, some coins, and a little book

containing seven leaves, headed "Food: Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday," and so forth. He then stood looking

through the pickles in some jar or other at things beyond, with one hand held out, fingers upwards, awaiting

the return of his little osier fruitbag. Feeling. presently that it had been restored to him, he would turn and

walk out of the shop. Behind his back, on the face of the department, the same protecting smile always rose.

Long habit had perfected it. All now felt that, though so very different from themselves, this aged customer

was dependent on them. By not one single farthing or one pale slip of cheese would they have defrauded him

for all the treasures of the moon, and any new salesman who laughed at that old client was promptly told to

Mr. Stone's frail form, bent somewhat to one side by the increased gravamen of the osier bag, was now seen

moving homewards. He arrived perhaps ten minutes before the three o'clock alarum, and soon passing

through preliminary chaos, the articulate, thin fluting of his voice streamed forth again, broken by the

But towards four o'clock signs of cerebral excitement became visible; his lips would cease to utter sounds, his

pen to squeak. His face, with a flushed forehead, would appear at the open window. As soon as the little

model came in sighther eyes fixed, not on his window, but on Hilary'she turned his back, evidently

waiting for her to enter by the door. His first words were uttered in a tranquil voice: "I have several pages. I

Except for that strange tranquillity of voice and the disappearance of the flush on his brow, there was no sign

of the rejuvenescence that she brought, of such refreshment as steals on the traveller who sits down beneath a

limetree toward the end of along day's journey; no sign of the mysterious comfort distilled into his veins by

the sight of her moody young face, her young, soft limbs. So from some stimulant men very near their end

will draw energy, watching, as it were, a shape beckoning them forward, till suddenly it disappears in

In the quarter of an hour sacred to their tea and conversation he never noticed that she was always listening

for sounds beyond; it was enough that in her presence he felt singleness of purpose strong within him.

When she had gone, moving languidly, moodily away, her eyes darting about for signs of Hilary, Mr. Stone

would sit down rather suddenly and fall asleep, to dream, perhaps, of YouthYouth with its scent of sap, its

close beckonings; Youth with its hopes and fears; Youth that hovers round us so long after it is dead! His

spirit would smile behind its coveringthat thin china of his face; and, as dogs hunting in their sleep work

The seven o'clock alarum woke him to the preparation of the evening meal. This eaten, he began once more

to pace up and down, to pour words out into the silence, and to drive his squeaking quill.

But the girl who came so moodily to bring him refreshment, and went so moodily away, never in these days

Since the morning when he had left her abruptly, Hilary had made a point of being out in the afternoons and

not returning till past six o'clock. By this device he put off facing her and himself, for he could no longer

refuse to see that he had himself to face. In the few minutes of utter silence when the girl sat beside him,

magnetic, quivering with awakening force, he had found that the male in him was far from dead. It was no

longer vague, sensuous feeling; it was warm, definite desire. The more she was in his thoughts, the less

In those days he seemed much changed to such as knew him well. Instead of the delicate, detached, slightly

humorous suavity which he had accustomed people to expect from him, the dry kindliness which seemed at

once to check confidence and yet to say, 'If you choose to tell me anything, I should never think of passing

judgment on you, whatever you have done'instead of that rather abstracted, faintly quizzical air, his

manner had become absorbed and gloomy. He seemed to jib away from his friends. His manner at the "Pen

and Ink" was wholly unsatisfying to men who liked to talk. He was known to be writing a new book; they

suspected him of having "got into a hat" this Victorian expression, found by Mr. Balladyce in some

chronicle of postThackerayan manners, and revived by him in his incomparable way, as who should say,

'What delicious expressions those good bourgeois had!' now flourished in second childhood.

In truth, Hilary's difficulty with his new book was merely the one of not being able to work at it at all. Even

the housemaid who "did" his study noticed that day after day she was confronted by Chapter XXIV., in spite

The change in his manner and face, which had grown strained and harassed, had been noticed by Bianca,

though she would have died sooner than admit she had noticed anything about him. It was one of those

periods in the lives of households like an hour of a late summer's daybrooding, electric, as yet quiescent,

Twice only in those weeks while Hughs was in prison did Hilary see the girl. Once he met her when he was

driving home; she blushed crimson and her eyes lighted up. And one morning, too, he passed her on the

bench where they had sat together. She was staring straight before her, the corners of her mouth drooping

To a man like Hilaryfor whom running after women had been about the last occupation in the world, who

had, in fact, always fought shy of them and imagined that they would always fight shy of himthere was an

unusual enticement and dismay in the feeling that a young girl really was pursuing him. It was at once too

good, too unlikely, and too embarrassing to be true. His sudden feeling for her was the painful sensation of

one who sees a ripe nectarine hanging within reach. He dreamed continually of stretching out his hand, and

so he did not dare, or thought he did not dare, to pass that way. All this did not favour the tenor of a studious,

introspective life; it also brought a sense of unreality which made him avoid his best friends. This, partly, was

why Stephen came to see him one Sunday, his other reason for the visit being the calculation that Hughs

'This girl,' he thought, 'is going to the house still, and Hilary will let things drift till he can't stop them, and

The fact of the man's having been in prison gave a sinister turn to an affair regarded hitherto as merely sordid

Crossing the garden, he heard Mr. Stone's voice issuing through the open window.

He found Hilary in his study, reading a book on the civilisation of the Maccabees, in preparation for a review.

"We haven't seen you for an age. I hear our old friend at it. Is he working double tides to finish his magnum

Hilary winced. Stephen continued with greater circumspection "You couldn't get the old boy to finish by

The notion of Mr. Stone's finishing his book by Wednesday procured a pale smile from Hilary.

"Could you get your Law Courts," he said, "to settle up the affairs of mankind for good and all by

"By Jove! Is it as bad as that? I thought, at any rate, he must be meaning to finish some day."

"Look here, dear boy!" he said, "that ruffian comes out on Wednesday. The whole thing will begin over

Hilary rose and paced the room. "I refuse," he said, "to consider Hughs a ruffian. What do we know about

For a moment the faces of the two brothers wore a hard, hostile look, as though the deep difference between

their characters had at last got the better of their loyalty. They both seemed to recognise this, for they turned

"I just wanted to remind you," Stephen said, "though you know your own business best, of course." And at

He soon left, conscious of an unwonted awkwardness in his brother's presence. Hilary watched him out

Stephen's visit had merely awakened perverse desires in him. Strong sunlight was falling on that little London

garden, disclosing its native shadowiness; streaks, and smudges such as Life smears over the faces of those

who live too consciously. Hilary, beneath the acaciatree not yet in bloom, marked an early butterfly flitting

over the geraniums blossoming round an old sundial. Blackbirds were holding evensong; the late perfume of

the lilac came stealing forth into air faintly smeeched with chimney smoke. There was brightness, but no

glory, in that little garden; scent, but no strong air blown across golden lakes of buttercups, from seas of

springing clover, or the windsilver of young wheat; music, but no full choir of sound, no hum. Like the face

and figure of its master, so was this little garden, whose sundial the sun seldom reachedrefined,

selfconscious, introspective, obviously a creature of the town. At that moment, however, Hilary was not

looking quite himself; his face was flushed, his eyes angry, almost as if he had been a man of action.

The voice of Mr. Stone was still audible, fitfully quavering out into the air, and the old man himself could

now and then be seen holding up his manuscript, his profile clearcut against the darkness of the room. A

"'Amidst the turbulent discoveries of those days, which, like crosscurrented and multibillowed seas,

A motorcar dashing past drowned the rest, and when the voice rose again it was evidently dictating another

"'In those places, in those streets, the shadows swarmed, whispering and droning like a hive of dying bees,

who, their honey eaten, wander through the winter day seeking flowers that are frozen and dead."'

A great bee which had been busy with the lilac began to circle, booming, round his hair. Suddenly Hilary saw

"'In huge congeries, crowded, devoid of light and air, they were assembled, these bloodless imprints from

forms of higher caste. They lay, like the reflection of leaves which, fluttering free in the sweet winds, let fall

to the earth wan resemblances. Imponderous, dark ghosts, wandering ones chained to the ground, they had no

hope of any Lovely City, nor knew whence they had come. Men cast them on the pavements and marched on.

They did not in Universal Brotherhood clasp their shadows to sleep within their heartsfor the sun was not

As those words of swan song died away he swayed and trembled, and suddenly disappeared below the

sightline, as if he had sat down. The little model took his place in the open window. She started at seeing

Hilary; then, motionless, stood gazing at him. Out of the gloom of the opening her eyes were all pupil, two

spots of the surrounding darkness imprisoned in a face as pale as any flower. Rigid as the girl herself, Hilary

A voice behind him said: "How are you? I thought I'd give my car a run." Mr. Purcey was coming from the

gate, his eyes fixed on the window where the girl stood. "How is your wife?" he added.

The bathos of this visit roused an acid fury in Hilary. He surveyed Mr. Purcey's figure from his clothtopped

As they went along Mr. Purcey said: "That's the youngtheermodel I met in your wife's studio, isn't it?

"Now, what sort of living do those girls make?" pursued Mr. Purcey. "I suppose they've most of them other

Mr. Purcey gave him a sharp look. It was almost as if Dallison had meant to snub him.

"Oh, exactly! I should think this girl would have no difficulty." And suddenly he saw a curious change come

over "that writing fellow," as he always afterwards described Hilary. Instead of a mild, pleasantlooking chap

In his surprise and anger Mr. Purcey said with great simplicity, "Sorry I'm 'de trop'!" and soon his car could

But Bianca was not out. She had been a witness of Hilary's long look at the little model. Coming from her

studio through the glass passage to the house, she could not, of course, see what he was gazing at, but she

knew as well as if the girl had stood before her in the dark opening of the window. Hating herself for having

seen, she went to her room, and lay on her bed with her hands pressed to her eyes. She was used to

lonelinessthat necessary lot of natures such as hers; but the bitter isolation of this hour was such as to drive

She rose at last, and repaired the ravages made in her face and dress, lest anyone should see that she was

suffering. Then, first making sure that Hilary had left the garden, she stole out.

She wandered towards Hyde Park. It was Whitsuntide, a time of fear to the cultivated Londoner. The town

seemed all arid jollity and paper bags whirled on a dusty wind. People swarmed everywhere in clothes which

did not suit them; desultory, deadtired creatures who, in these few green hours of leisure out of the sandy

eternity of their toil, were not suffered to rest, but were whipped on by starved instincts to hunt pleasures

Bianca passed an old tramp asleep beneath a tree. His clothes had clung to him so long and lovingly that they

were falling off, but his face was calm as though masked with the finest wax. Forgotten were his sores and

Bianca hastened away from the sight of such utter peace. She wandered into a grove of trees which had

almost eluded the notice of the crowd. They were limes, guarding still within them their honey bloom. Their

branches of light, broad leaves, near heartshaped, were spread out like wide skirts. The tallest of these trees,

a beautiful, gay creature, stood tremulous, like a mistress waiting for her tardy lover. What joy she seemed to

promise, what delicate enticement, with every veined quivering leaf! And suddenly the sun caught hold of

her, raised her up to him, kissed her all over; she gave forth a sigh of happiness, as though her very spirit had

A woman in a lilac frock came stealing through the trees towards Bianca, and sitting down not far off, kept

Presently Bianca saw what she was looking for. A young man in black coat and shining hat came swiftly up

and touched her shoulder. Half hidden by the foliage they sat, leaning forward, prodding gently at the ground

with stick and parasol; the stealthy murmur of their talk, so soft and intimate that no word was audible, stole

across the grass; and secretly he touched her hand and arm. They were not of the holiday crowd, and had

Bianca rose and hurried on amongst the trees. She left the Park. In the streets many couples, not so careful to

conceal their intimacy, were parading arminarm. The sight of them did not sting her like the sight of those

lovers in the Park; they were not of her own order. But presently she saw a little boy and girl asleep on the

doorstep of a mansion, with their cheeks pressed close together and their arms round each other, and again

she hurried on. In the course of that long wandering she passed the building which "Westminister" was so

anxious to avoid. In its gateway an old couple were just about to separate, one to the men's, the other to the

women's quarters. Their toothless mouths were close together. "Well, goodnight, Mother!" "Goodnight,

It was past nine when she turned into the Old Square, and rang the bell of her sister's house with the sheer

At one end of the long, low drawingroom Stephen, in evening dress, was reading aloud from a review.

Cecilia was looking dubiously at his sock, where she seemed to see a tiny speck of white that might be

Stephen. In the window at the far end Thyme and Martin were exchanging speeches at short intervals; they

made no move at Bianca's entrance; and their faces said: "We have no use for that handshaking nonsense!"

Receiving Cecilia's little, warm, doubting kiss and Stephen's polite, dry handshake, Bianca motioned to him

not to stop reading. He resumed. Cecilia, too, resumed her scrutiny of Stephen's sock.

'Oh dear!' she thought. 'I know B.'s come here because she's unhappy. Poor thing! Poor Hilary! It's that

Skilled in every tone of Stephen's voice, she knew that Bianca's entry had provoked the same train of thought

in him; to her he seemed reading out these words: 'I disapproveI disapprove. She's Cis's sister. But if it

Bianca, whose subtlety recorded every shade of feeling, could see that she was not welcome. Leaning back

with veil raised, she seemed listening to Stephen's reading, but in fact she was quivering at the sight of those

Couples, couplesfor all but her! What crime had she committed? Why was the china of her cup flawed so

that no one could drink from it? Why had she been made so that nobody could love her? This, the most bitter

The article which Stephen readexplaining exactly how to deal with people so that from one sort of human

being they might become another, and going on to prove that if, after this conversion, they showed signs of a

reversion, it would then be necessary to know the reason whyfell dryly on ears listening to that eternal

question: Why is it with me as it is? It is not fair!listening to the constant murmuring of her pride: I am not

>From their end of the room Thyme and Martin scarcely looked at her. To them she was Aunt B., an amateur,

the mockery of whose eyes sometimes penetrated their youthful armour; they were besides too interested in

their conversation to perceive that she was suffering. The skirmish of that conversation had lasted now for

"Well," Martin was saying, "what are you going to do? It's no good to base it on the baby; you must know

your own mind all round. You can't go rushing into real work on mere sentiment."

"We've gone past the need for sentiment," he said: "it's exploded; so is Justice, administered by an upper class

with a patch over one eye and a squint in the other. When you see a dying donkey in a field, you don't want to

refer the case to a society, as your dad would; you don't want an essay of Hilary's, full of sympathy with

everybody, on 'Walking in a field: with reflections on the end of donkeys'you want to put a bullet in the

"I'm not so sure of that," said Martin slowly; "he hasn't got character enough."

Thyme raised her chin, and, looking at him through halfclosed eyes, said: " Well, I do think, of all the

Martin stretched out his hand and gripped her arm below the elbow. Retaining it luxuriously, he said: "Don't

"I won't! I'll make you know your mind. What do you mean to do? Are you coming in a fit of sentiment, or

Suddenly, halfhypnotised, the young girl ceased to struggle. Her face had the strangest expression of

submission and defiancea sort of pain, a sort of delight. So they sat full half a minute staring at each other's

eyes. Hearing a rustling sound, they looked, and saw Bianca moving to the door. Cecilia, too, had risen.

Bianca, opening the door, went out. Cecilia followed swiftly, too late to catch even a glimpse of her sister's

In Mr. Stone's room the green lamp burned dimly, and he who worked by it was sitting on the edge of his

"I have finished for tonight," he said. "I am waiting for the moon to rise. She is nearly full; I shall see her

Mr. Stone saw his younger daughter. "You have your hat on. Are you going out, my dear?"

The wan moon had slipped out into the darkness. Her light stole across the garden and through the open

With her arms pressed tight across her breast, Bianca was struggling with violent, noiseless sobbing. That

desperate struggle seemed to be tearing her to death before his eyes, and Mr. Stone sat silent, trembling. He

knew not what to do. From his frosted heart years of Universal Brotherhood had taken all knowledge of how

to help his daughter. He could only sit touching her tremulously with thin fingers.

The form beside him, whose warmth he felt against his arm, grew stiller, as though, in spite of its own

loneliness, his helplessness had made it feel that he, too; was lonely. It pressed a little closer to him. The

moonlight, gaining pale mastery over the flickering lamp, filled the whole room.

Finding out an old, forgotten way, Mr. Stone's arm slid round that quivering body.

"I do not know what to say to her," he muttered, and slowly he began to rock himself.

The moon passed on. The form beside him sat so still that Mr. Stone ceased moving. His daughter was no

Trembling from that desperate caress, he raised his fingers to the spot and looked round.

To understand the conduct of Hilary and Bianca at what "Westminister" would have called this "crisax," not

only their feelings as sentient human beings, but their matrimonial philosophy, must be taken into account.

By education and environment they belonged to a section of society which had "in those days" abandoned the

more oldfashioned views of marriage. Such as composed this section, finding themselves in opposition, not

only to the orthodox proprietary creed, but even to their own legal rights, had been driven to an attitude of

almost blatant freedom. Like all folk in opposition, they were bound, as a simple matter of principle, to

disagree with those in power, to view with a contemptuous resentment that majority which said, "I believe the

thing is mine, and mine it shall remain"a majority which by force of numbers made this creed the law.

Unable legally to, be other than the proprietors of wife or husband, as the case might be, they were obliged,

even in the most happy unions, to be very careful not to become disgusted with their own position. Their

legal status was, as it were, a goad, spurring them on to show their horror of it. They were like children sent

to school with trousers that barely reached their knees, aware that they could neither reduce their stature to

the proportions of their breeches nor make their breeches grow. They were furnishing an instance of that

immemorial "change of form to form" to which Mr. Stone had given the name of Life. In a past age thinkers

and dreamers and "artistic pigs" rejecting the forms they found, had given unconscious shape to this marriage

law, which, after they had become the wind, had formed itself out of their exiled pictures and thoughts and

dreams. And now this particular law in turn was the dried rind, devoid of pips or speculation; and the thinkers

and dreamers and "artistic pigs" were again rejecting it, and again themselves in exile.

This exiled faith, this honour amongst thieves, animated a little conversation between Hilary and Bianca on

the Tuesday following the night when Mr. Stone sat on his bed to watch the rising moon.

That icecold, iceclear remark contained the pith of the whole matter; and Hilary said:

This had been all. It had been sufficient to bring Hilary once more face to face with the situation.

Its constituent elements remained the same; relative values had much changed. The temptations of St.

Anthony were becoming more poignant every hour. He had no "principles" to pit against them: he had merely

the inveterate distaste for hurting anybody, and a feeling that if he yielded to his inclination he would be

faced ultimately with a worse situation than ever. It was not possible for him to look at the position as Mr.

Purcey might have done, if his wife had withdrawn from him and a girl had put herself in his way. Neither

hesitation because of the defenceless position of the girl, nor hesitation because of his own future with her,

would have troubled Mr. Purcey. Hegood manin his straightforward way, would have only thought

about the presentnot, indeed, intending to have a future with a young person of that class. Consideration

for a wife who had withdrawn from the society of Mr. Purcey would also naturally have been absent from the

equation. That Hilary worried over all these questions was the mark of his 'fin de sieclism.' And in the

He had not spoken to this girl since the day of the baby's funeral, but in that long look from the garden he had

in effect said: 'You are drawing me to the only sort of union possible to us!' And she in effect had answered:

There were other facts, too, to be reckoned with. Hughs would be released tomorrow; the little model would

not stop her visits unless forced to; Mr. Stone could not well do without her; Bianca had in effect declared

that she was being driven out of her own house. It was this situation which Hilary, seated beneath the bust of

Socrates, turned over and over in his mind. Long and painful reflection brought him back continually to the

thought that he himself, and not Bianca, had better go away. He was extremely bitter and contemptuous

towards himself that he had not done so long ago. He made use of the names Martin had given him.

"Hamlet," "Amateur," "Invertebrate." They gave him, unfortunately, little comfort.

In the afternoon he received a visit. Mr. Stone came in with his osier fruitbag in his hand. He remained

"She came to me, I think," he said; "I seem to recollect her crying. You are good to her?"

Mr. Stone's face was discoloured by a flush. "You have no children," he said painfully; "do you live

Hilary bowed. There was a long silence. Mr. Stone's eyes had travelled to the window.

"Without love there cannot be life," he said at last; and fixing his wistful gaze on Hilary, asked: "Does she

At this question Hilary's eyebrows settled in a frown. "What do you mean by love?" he said.

Mr. Stone did not reply; it was evident that he was reflecting deeply. His lips began to move: "By love I mean

the forgetfulness of self. Unions are frequent in which only the sexual instincts, or the remembrance of self,

"I was telling you," said Hilary, "that it would be better for your daughterif I go away for a time."

"There is one thing, sir," he said, "on my conscience to say before I go, and I must leave it to you to decide.

Hilary went on quickly. "She was obliged to leave because the husband of the woman with whom she used to

lodge became infatuated with her. He has been in prison, and comes out tomorrow. If she continues to come

here he will, of course, be able to find her. I'm afraid he will pursue her again. Have I made it clear to you?"

"The man," resumed Hilary patiently, "is a poor, violent creature, who has been wounded in the head; he is

Hilary smiled. "I am afraid that words will hardly meet the case. She ought to disappear."

It smote Hilary to see how white his face had become. 'It's better,' he thought, 'to bring his willpower into

But, unable to bear the tragedy in the old man's eyes, he touched him on the arm.

Mr. Stone did not answer, and, not knowing what more to say, Hilary went back to the window. Miranda was

slumbering lightly out there in the speckled shade, where it was not too warm and not too cold, her cheek

Mr. Stone's voice rose again. "You are right; I cannot ask her to run a risk like that!"

"She is just coming up the garden," Hilary said huskily. "Shall I tell her to come in?"

The girl came in, carrying a tiny bunch of lilies of the valley; her face fell at sight of Mr. Stone; she stood

still, raising the lilies to her breast. Nothing could have been more striking than the change from her look of

guttered expectancy to a sort of hard dismay. A spot of red came into both her cheeks. She gazed from Mr.

Stone to Hilary and back again. Both were staring at her. No one spoke. The little model's bosom began

heaving as though she had been running; she said faintly: "Look; I brought you this, Mr. Stone!" and held out

To Hilary this suspense was, evidently, most distressing. "Come, will you tell her, sir," he said, "or shall I?"

"I shall try and write my book without you. You must not run this risk. I cannot allow it."

The little model turned her eyes from side to side. "But I like to copy out your book," she said.

"I don't care if he does; I'm not afraid of him. I can look after myself; I'm used to it."

After a desperate look, that seemed to ask, 'Am I going, too?' the little model stood as though frozen.

She did not take his hand. Her eyes, turned sideways, glinted; her teeth were fastened on her lower lip. She

dropped the lilies, suddenly looked up at him, gulped, and slunk away. In passing she had smeared the lilies

Hilary picked up the fragments of the flowers, and dropped them into the grate. The fragrance of the bruised

Mr. Stone moved feebly to the door, and very soon they were walking silently towards the Gardens.

This same afternoon Thyme, wheeling a bicycle and carrying a light valise, was slipping into a back street out

of the Old Square. Putting her burden down at the pavement's edge, she blew a whistle. A hansomcab

appeared, and a man in ragged clothes, who seemed to spring out of the pavement, took hold of her valise.

The cab now proceeded in the direction of the Park, Thyme following on her bicycle, and trying to stare

'This,' she thought, 'is the end of the old life. I won't be romantic, and imagine I'm doing anything special; I

must take it all as a matter of course.' She thought of Mr. Purcey's face'that person!'if he could have

seen her at this moment turning her back on comfort. 'The moment I get there,' she mused, 'I shall let mother

know; she can come out tomorrow, and see for herself. I can't have hysterics about my disappearance, and

all that. They must get used to the idea that I mean to be in touch with things. I can't be stopped by what

An approaching motorcar brought a startled frown across her brow. Was it 'that person'? But though it was

not Mr. Purcey and his A.i. Damyer, it was somebody so like him as made no difference. Thyme uttered a

In the Park a cool light danced and glittered on the trees and water, and the same cool, dancing glitter seemed

The cabman, unseen, took an admiring look at her. 'Nice little bit, this!' it said.

'Grandfather bathes here,' thought Thyme. 'Poor darling! I pity everyone that's old.'

'I wonder if we have only one self in us,' thought Thyme. 'I sometimes feel that I have twoUncle Hilary

would understand what I mean. The pavements are beginning to smell horrid already, and it's only June

tomorrow. Will mother feel my going very much? How glorious if one didn't feel!'

'It must be dreadful to have to serve in a small shop. What millions of people there are in the world! Can

anything be of any use? Martin says what matters is to do one's job; but what is one's job?'

'But I'm not going to think of anything,' thought Thyme; 'that's fatal. Suppose father stops my allowance; I

should have to earn my living as a typist, or something of that sort; but he won't, when he sees I mean it.

The cab entered the Euston Road, and again the cabman's broad face was turned towards Thyme with an

'What a hateful road!' Thyme thought. 'What dull, ugly, common looking faces all the people seem to have

in London! as if they didn't care for anything but just to get through their day somehow. I've only seen two

Through the open door a narrow passage led to a narrow staircase covered with oilcloth. She raised her

bicycle and wheeled it in. A Jewishlooking youth emerging from the shop accosted her.

"Your gentleman friend says you are to stay in your rooms, please, until he comes."

His warm redbrown eyes dwelt on her lovingly. "Shall I take your luggage up, miss?"

The little rooms which Thyme entered were stuffy, clean, and neat. Putting her trunk down in her bedroom,

which looked out on a bare yard, she went into the sittingroom and threw the window up. Down below the

cabman and tobacconist were engaged in conversation. Thyme caught the expression on their facesa sort

'How disgusting and horrible men are!' she thought, moodily staring at the traffic. All seemed so grim, so

inextricable, and vast, out there in the grey heat and hurry, as though some monstrous devil were sporting

with a monstrous antheap. The reek of petrol and of dung rose to her nostrils. It was so terribly big and

hopeless; it was so ugly! 'I shall never do anything,' thought Thyme'nevernever! Why doesn't Martin

She went into her bedroom and opened her valise. With the scent of lavender that came from it, there sprang

up a vision of her white bedroom at home, and the trees of the green garden and the blackbirds on the grass.

The sound of footsteps on the stairs brought her back into the sittingroom. Martin was standing in the

Thyme ran towards him, but stopped abruptly. "I've come, you see. What made you choose this place?"

"I'm next door but two; and there's a girl hereone of us. She'll show you the ropes."

Martin raised his shoulders. "She is what is called a lady," he said; "but she's the right sort, all the same.

At this proclamation of supreme virtue, the look on Thyme's face was very queer. 'You don't trust me,' it

seemed to say, 'and you trust that girl. You put me here for her to watch over me!...'

Martin read the telegram. "You oughtn't to have funked telling your mother what you meant to do."

"This is a big matter," said Martin. "I told you that you had no business to come at all if you couldn't look it

Thyme stood at the window, biting her lips to keep the tears back from her eyes. A very pleasant voice

A girl in grey was standing therethin, delicate, rather plain, with a nose ever so little to one side, lips

In the gentle question of this girl with the faintly smiling lips and shining eyes Thyme fancied that she

"Oh! Won't tomorrow do for all that sort of thing? I'm sure you must be tired. Mr. Stone, do make her rest!"

"If you mean business, your work will be the same as hers," he said; "you're not qualified. All you can do will

The girl in grey said gently: "You see, we only deal with sanitation and the children. It seems hard on the

grown people and the old to leave them out; but there's sure to be so much less money than we want, so that it

Left alone in the little room, the two girls did not at first speak. The girl in grey was watching Thyme half

timidly, as if she could not tell what to make of this young creature who looked so charming, and kept

"I think it's so awfully sweet of you to come," she said at last. "I know what a good time you have at home;

The grey girl smiled. "It is rather awful sometimes. I've been at it six months now. You get used to it. I've had

"You see," said the grey girl's faintly smiling lips, "you soon get the feeling of having to go through with it.

We all realise it's got to be done, of course. Your cousin's one of the best of us; nothing seems to put him out.

He has such a nice sort of scornful kindness. I'd rather work with him than anyone."

She looked past her new associate into that world outside, where the sky seemed all wires and yellow

heatdust. She did not notice Thyme appraising her from head to foot, with a stare hostile and jealous, but

The grey girl smiled. "Oh, I thought that at first." Then, with an admiring look: "But I do think it's rather a

shame for you, you're so pretty. Perhaps they'd put you on to tabulation work, though that's awfully dull.

"Well," said the grey girl, "I've got one house left today. Would you like to come and see the sort of thing?"

"I can't get on without a pocket. You must have something that you can't leave behind. I left four little bags

and two dozen handkerchiefs in five weeks before I came back to pockets. It's rather a horrid house, I'm

In the shop doorway the young tobacconist was taking the evening air. He greeted them with his polite but

"He's rather an awful little man," the grey girl said when they had achieved the crossing of the street; "but

They had turned into a bystreet, and stopped before a house which had obviously seen better days. Its

windows were cracked, its doors unpainted, and down in the basement could be seen a pile of rags, an

evillooking man seated by it, and a blazing fire. Thyme felt a little gulping sensation. There was a putrid

scent as of burning refuse. She looked at her companion. The grey girl was consulting her notebook, with a

faint smile on her lips. And in Thyme's heart rose a feeling almost of hatred for this girl, who was so

The door was opened by a young redfaced woman, who looked as if she had been asleep.

The grey girl screwed up her shining eyes. "Oh, do you mind if we come in a minute?" she said. "It would be

"There's nothing to report here," the young woman answered. But the grey girl had slipped as gently past as

"I've parted with most of my things," the young woman said defensively, "since my husband died. It's a hard

"Yes, yes, but not worse than minealways poking my nose into other people's houses."

"The landlord ought to keep you in better repair," said the grey girl. "He owns next door, too, doesn't he?"

The young woman nodded. "He's a bad landlord. All down the street 'ere it's the same. Can't get nothing

The grey girl had gone over to a dirty bassinette where a halfnaked child sprawled. An ugly little girl with

fat red cheeks was sitting on a stool beside it, close to an open locker wherein could be seen a number of old

"That's more than can be said for all the children in the house, I expect," murmured the grey girl.

The young woman replied emphatically, as though voicing an old grievance: "The three on the first floor's

Thyme saw her new friend's hand hover over the child's head like some pale dove. In answer to that gesture,

the mother nodded. "Just that; you've got to clean 'em every time they go near them children at the top."

The grey girl looked at Thyme. 'That's where we've got to go, evidently,' she seemed to say.

"It is. I'm workin' at the laundry all day when I can get it. I can't look after the childrenthey get

Together with the little book, in which she was writing furiously, she had pulled out her handkerchief, and the

sight of this handkerchief reposing on the floor gave Thyme a queer satisfaction, such as comes when one

"Cleary. How old's this little one? Four? And the other? Two? They are ducks. Goodbye!"

In the corridor outside the grey girl whispered: "I do like the way we all pride ourselves on being better than

someone else. I think it's so hopeful and jolly. Shall we go up and see the abyss at the top?"

A young girl's mind is like a wood in Springnow a rising mist of bluebells and flakes of dappled sunlight;

now a world of still, wan, tender saplings, weeping they know not why. Through the curling twigs of boughs

just green, its wings fly towards the stars; but the next moment they have drooped to mope beneath the damp

bushes. It is ever yearning for and trembling at the future; in its secret places all the countless shapes of things

that are to be are taking stealthy counsel of how to grow up without letting their gown of mystery fall. They

rustle, whisper, shriek suddenly, and as suddenly fall into a delicious silence. From the first hazelbush to the

last maytree it is an unending meetingplace of young solemn things eager to find out what they are, eager

to rush forth to greet the kisses of the wind and sun, and for ever trembling back and hiding their faces. The

spirit of that wood seems to lie with her ear close to the ground, a pale petal of a hand curved like a shell

behind it, listening for the whisper of her own life. There she lies, white and supple, with dewy, wistful eyes,

sighing: 'What is my meaning? Ah, I am everything! Is there in all the world a thing so wonderful as I?... Oh,

When Thyme, attended by the grey girl, emerged from the abyss at the top, her cheeks were flushed and her

hands clenched. She said nothing. The grey girl, too, was silent, with a look such as a spirit divested of its

body by long bathing in the river of reality might bend on one who has just come to dip her head. Thyme's

quick eyes saw that look, and her colour deepened. She saw, too, the glance of the Jewish youth when Martin

Supper was laid in her new friend's roompressed beef, potato salad, stewed prunes, and ginger ale. Martin

and the grey girl talked. Thyme ate in silence, but though her eyes seemed fastened on her plate, she saw

every glance that passed between them, heard every word they said. Those glances were not remarkable, nor

were those words particularly important, but they were spoken in tones that seemed important to Thyme. 'He

When supper was over they went out into the streets to walk, but at the door the grey girl gave Thyme's arm a

With the back of her hand Thyme rubbed off the kiss. The two cousins walked out amongst the traffic.

The evening was very warm and close; no breeze fanned the reeking town. Speaking little, they wandered

among endless darkening streets, whence to return to the light and traffic of the Euston Road seemed like

coming back to Heaven. At last, close again to her new home, Thyme said: "Why should one bother? It's all a

horrible great machine, trying to blot us out; people are like insects when you put your thumb on them and

Thyme faced round at him. "I shan't sleep tonight, Martin; get out my bicycle for me."

Martin scrutinised her by the light of the street lamp. "All right," he said; "I'll come too."

There are, say moralists, roads that lead to Hell, but it was on a road that leads to Hampstead that the two

young cyclists set forth towards eleven o'clock. The difference between the character of the two destinations

was soon apparent, for whereas man taken in bulk had perhaps made Hell, Hampstead had obviously been

made by the upper classes. There were trees and gardens, and instead of dark canals of sky banked by the

roofs of houses and hazed with the yellow scum of London lights, the heavens spread out in a wide trembling

pool. From that rampart of the town, the Spaniard's Road, two plains lay exposed to left and right; the scent

of maytree blossom had stolen up the hill; the rising moon clung to a firtree bough. Over the country the

far stars presided, and sleep's dark wings were spread above the fieldssilent, scarce breathing, lay the body

of the land. But to the south, where the town, that restless head, was lying, the stars seemed to have fallen and

were sown in the thousand furrows of its great grey marsh, and from the dark miasma of those streets there

travelled up a rustle, a whisper, the far allurement of some deathless dancer, dragging men to watch the swirl

of her black, spangled drapery, the gleam of her writhing limbs. Like the song of the sea in a shell was the

murmur of that witch of motion, clasping to her the souls of men, drawing them down into a soul whom none

Above the two young cousins, scudding along that ridge between the country and the town, three thin white

clouds trailed slowly towards the westlike tired. seabirds drifting exhausted far out from land on a sea blue

Thyme shook her head. A long, steep hill beyond a little sleeping village had brought them to a standstill.

Across the shadowy fields a pale sheet of water gleamed out in moonlight. Thyme turned down towards it.

Martin stayed leaning against the gate. The village clock struck one. The distant call of a hunting owl,

"Quwheek, quwheek!" sounded through the grave stillness of this last night of May. The moon at her

curve's summit floated at peace on the blue surface of the sky, a great closed waterlily. And Martin saw

through the trees scimitarshaped reeds clustering black along the pool's shore. All about him the

mayflowers were alight. It was such a night as makes dreams real and turns reality to dreams.

'All moonlit nonsense!' thought the young man, for the night had disturbed his heart.

But Thyme did not come back. He called to her, and in the deathlike silence following his shouts he could

hear his own heart beat. He passed in through the gate. She was nowhere to be seen. Why was she playing

He turned up from the water among the trees, where the incense of the mayflowers hung heavy in the air.

'Never look for a thing!' he thought, and stopped to listen. It was so breathless that the leaves of a low bough

against his cheek did not stir while he stood there. Presently he heard faint sounds, and stole towards them.

Under a beechtree he almost stumbled over Thyme, lying with her face pressed to the ground. The young

doctor's heart gave a sickening leap; he quickly knelt down beside her. The girl's body, pressed close to the

dry beechmat, was being shaken by long sobs. From head to foot it quivered; her hat had been torn off, and

the fragrance of her hair mingled with the fragrance of the night. In Martin's heart something seemed to turn

over and over, as when a boy he had watched a rabbit caught in a snare. He touched her. She sat up, and,

He put his arm round her and waited. Five minutes passed. The air was trembling with a sort of pale

vibration, for the moonlight had found a hole in the dark foliage and flooded on to the ground beside them,

whitening the black beechhusks. Some tiny bird, disturbed by these unwonted visitors, began chirruping and

fluttering, but was soon still again. To Martin, so strangely close to this young creature in the night, there

'Poor little thing!' he thought; 'be careful of her, comfort her!' Hardness seemed so broken out of her, and the

night so wonderful! And there came into the young man's heart a throb of the knowledge very rare with

him, for he was not, like Hilary, a philosophising personthat she was as real as himselfsuffering, hoping,

feeling, not his hopes and feelings, but her own. His fingers kept pressing her shoulder through her thin

blouse. And the touch of those fingers was worth more than any words, as this night, all moonlit dreams, was

Thyme twisted herself away from him at last. "I can't," she sobbed. "I'm not what you thought meI'm not

A scornful little smile curled Martin's lip. So that was it! But the smile soon died away. One did not hit what

Thyme's voice wailed through the silence. "I thought I couldbut I want beautiful things. I can't bear it all so

She sank down again, burying her face in the dark beechmat. The moonlight had passed on. Her voice came

faint and stiffed, as out of the tomb of faith. "I'm no good. I never shall be. I'm as bad as mother!"

"No," murmured Thyme's voice, "I'm only fit for miserable Art.... I'm only fit fornothing!"

They were so close together on the dark beech mat that their bodies touched, and a longing to clasp her in his

"I'm a selfish beast!" moaned the smothered voice. "I don't really care for all these peopleI only care

Martin reached his hand out to her hair. If she had shrunk away he would have seized her, but as though by

instinct she let it rest there. And at her sudden stillness, strange and touching, Martin's quick passion left him.

He slipped his arm round her and raised her up, as if she had been a child, and for a long time sat listening

The dawn found them still sitting there against the bole of the beechtree. Her lips were parted; the tears had

dried on her sleeping face, pillowed against his shoulder, while he still watched her sideways with the ghost

And beyond the grey water, like some tired wanton, the moon in an orange hood was stealing down to her

Cecilia received the mystic document containing these words "Am quite all right. Address, 598, Euston Road,

three doors off Martin. Letter follows explaining. Thyme," she had not even realised her little daughter's

departure. She went up to Thyme's room at once, and opening all the drawers and cupboards, stared into them

one by one. The many things she saw there allayed the first pangs of her disquiet.

'She has only taken one little trunk,' she thought, 'and left all her evening frocks.'

This act of independence alarmed rather than surprised her, such had been her sense of the unrest in the

domestic atmosphere during the last month. Since the evening when she had found Thyme in foods of tears

because of the Hughs' baby, her maternal eyes had not failed to notice something new in the child's

demeanoura moodiness, an air almost of conspiracy, together with an emphatic increase of youthful

sarcasm: Fearful of probing deep, she had sought no confidence, nor had she divulged her doubts to Stephen.

Amongst the blouses a sheet of blue ruled paper, which had evidently escaped from a notebook, caught her

eye. Sentences were scrawled on it in pencil. Cecilia read: "That poor little dead thing was so grey and

pinched, and I seemed to realise all of a sudden how awful it is for them. I mustI mustI will do

Cecilia dropped the sheet of paper; her hand was trembling. There was no mystery in that departure now, and

Stephen's words came into her mind: "It's all very well up to a certain point, and nobody sympathises with

them more than I do; but after that it becomes destructive of all comfort, and that does no good to anyone."

The sound sense of those words had made her feel queer when they were spoken; they were even more

sensible than she had thought. Did her little daughter, so young and pretty, seriously mean to plunge into the

rescue work of dismal slums, to cut herself adrift from sweet sounds and scents and colours, from music and

art, from dancing, flowers, and all that made life beautiful? The secret forces of fastidiousness, an inborn

dread of the fanatical, and all her real ignorance of what such a life was like, rose in Cecilia with a force

which made her feel quite sick. Better that she herself should do this thing than that her own child should be

deprived of air and light and all the just environment of her youth and beauty. 'She must come backshe

must listen to me!' she thought. 'We will begin together; we will start a nice little creche of our own,

orperhaps Mrs. Tallents Smallpeace could find us some regular work on one of her committees.'

Then suddenly she conceived a thought which made her blood run positively cold. What if it were a matter of

heredity? What if Thyme had inherited her grandfather's singlemindedness? Martin was giving proof of it.

Things, she knew, often skipped a generation and then set in again. Surely, surely, it could not have done

that! With longing, yet with dread, she waited for the sound of Stephen's latchkey. It came at its appointed

Even in her agitation Cecilia did not forget to spare him, all she could. She began by giving him a kiss, and

"It's rather what you might expect," faltered Cecilia, "from her going about so much with Martin."

Stephen's face assumed at once an air of dry derision; there was no love lost between him and his young

"She has gone off to do worksome place in the Euston Road. I've had a telegram. Oh, and I found this,

She held out to him halfheartedly the two bits of paper, one pinkishbrown, the other blue. Stephen saw that

she was trembling. He took them from her, read them, and looked at her again. He had a real affection for his

wife, and the tradition of consideration for other people's feelings was bred in him, so that at this moment, so

vitally disturbing, the first thing he did was to put his hand on her shoulder and give it a reassuring squeeze.

But there was also in Stephen a certain primitive virility, pickled, it is true, at Cambridge, and in the Law

Courts dried, but still preserving something of its possessive and assertive quality, and the second thing he

In that little sentence lay the whole psychology of his attitude towards this situation and all the difference

between two classes of the population. Mr. Purcey would undoubtedly have said: "Well, I'm damned!"

Stephen, by saying "No, I'm damned!" betrayed that before he could be damned he had been obliged to

wrestle and contend with something, and Cecilia, who was always wrestling too, knew this something to be

that queer new thing, a Social Conscience, the dim bogey stalking pale about the houses of those who,

through the accidents of leisure or of culture, had once left the door open to the suspicion: Is it possible that

there is a class of people besides my own, or am I dreaming? Happy the millions, poor or rich, not yet

condemned to watch the wistful visiting or hear the husky mutter of that ghost, happy in their homes, blessed

Even now she did not quite plumb the depths of Stephen's; she felt his struggle with the ghost; she felt and

admired his victory. What she did not, could not, perhaps, realise, was the precise nature of the outrage

inflicted on him by Thyme's action. With herbeing a womanthe matter was more practical; she did not

grasp, had never grasped, the architectural nature of Stephen's mindhow really hurt he was by what did not

He spoke: "Why on earth, if she felt like that, couldn't she have gone to work in the ordinary way? She could

have put herself in connection with some proper charitable societyI should never have objected to that. It's

"I believe," Cecilia faltered, "that Martin's is a society. It's a kind of medical Socialism, or something of that

"He may have as much faith as he likes," he said, with the restraint that was one of his best qualities, "so long

Cecilia said suddenly: "Oh! what are we to do, Stephen? Shall I go over there tonight?"

As one may see a shadow pass down on a cornfield, so came the cloud on Stephen's face. It was as though he

had not realised till then the full extent of what this meant. For a minute he was silent. "Better wait for her

letter," he said at last. "He's her cousin, after all, and Mrs. Grundy's deadin the Euston Road, at all events."

So, trying to spare each other all they could of anxiety, and careful to abstain from any hint of trouble before

At that hour between the night and morning, when man's vitality is lowest, and the tremors of his spirit, like

birds of ill omen, fly round and round him, beating their long plumes against his cheeks, Stephen woke.

It was very still. A bar of pearlygrey dawn showed between the filmy curtains, which stirred with a regular,

faint movement, like the puffing of a sleeper's lips. The tide of the wind, woven in Mr. Stone's fancy of the

souls of men, was at low ebb. Feebly it fanned the houses and hovels where the myriad forms of men lay

sleeping, unconscious of its breath; so faint life's pulse, that men and shadows seemed for that brief moment

mingled in the town's sleep. Over the million varied roofs, over the hundred million little different shapes of

men and things, the wind's quiet, visiting wand had stilled all into the wonder state of nothingness, when life

And Stephen's self, feeling the magnetic currents of that ebbtide drawing it down into murmurous slumber,

out beyond the sandbars of individuality and class, threw up its little hands and began to cry for help. The

purple sea of selfforgetfulness, under the dim, impersonal sky, seemed to him so cold and terrible. It had no

limit that he could see, no rules but such as hung too far away, written in the hieroglyphics of paling stars. He

could feel no order in the lift and lap of the wan waters round his limbs. Where would those waters carry

him? To what depth of still green silence? Was his own little daughter to go down into this sea that knew no

creed but that of selfforgetfulness, that respected neither class nor personthis sea where a few wandering

streaks seemed all the evidence of the precious differences between mankind? God forbid it

And, turning on his elbow, he looked at her who had given him this daughter. In the mystery of his wife's

sleeping facethe face of her most near and dear to himhe tried hard not to see a likeness to Mr. Stone.

He fell back somewhat comforted with the thought: 'That old chap has his one ideahis Universal

Brotherhood. He's absolutely absorbed in it. I don't see it in Cis's face a bit. Quite the contrary.'

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. For that, he supposed, one must forget oneself. Why, it was really even a

worse case than that of Mr. Stone! And to Stephen there was something awful in this thought.

The first small bird of morning, close to the open window, uttered a feeble chirrup. Into Stephen's mind there

leaped without reason recollection of the morning after his first term at school, when, awakened by the birds,

he had started up and fished out from under his pillow his catapult and the box of shot he had brought home

and taken to sleep with him. He seemed to see again those leaden shot with their bluish sheen, and to feel

them, round, and soft, and heavy, rolling about his palm. He seemed to hear Hilary's surprised voice saying:

No one had ever had a better brother than old Hilary. His only fault was that he had always been too kind. It

was his kindness that had done for him, and made his married life a failure. He had never asserted himself

enough with that woman, his wife. Stephen turned over on his other side. 'All this confounded business,' he

thought, 'comes from oversympathising. That's what's the matter with Thyme, too.' Long he lay thus, while

the light grew stronger, listening to Cecilia's gentle breathing, disturbed to his very marrow by these thoughts.

The first post brought no letter from Thyme, and the announcement soon after, that Mr. Hilary had come to

breakfast, was received by both Stephen and Cecilia with a welcome such as the anxious give to anything

Stephen made haste down. Hilary, with a very grave and harassed face, was in the diningroom. It was he,

Stephen took up the Standard. In spite of his selfcontrol, his hand shook a little.

"It's a ridiculous business," he said. "That precious young Sanitist has so worked his confounded theories into

Thyme that she has gone off to the Euston Road to put them into practice, of all things!"

At the halfconcerned amusement on Hilary's face his quick and rather narrow eyes glinted.

"It's not exactly for you to laugh, Hilary," he said. "It's all of a piece with your cursed sentimentality about

Hilary answered this unjust and unexpected outburst by a look, and Stephen, with the strange feeling of

inferiority which would come to him in Hilary's presence against his better judgment, lowered his own

"My dear boy," said Hilary, "if any bit of my character has crept into Thyme, I'm truly sorry."

Stephen took his brother's hand and gave it a good grip; and, Cecilia coming in, they all sat down.

Cecilia at once noted what Stephen in his preoccupation had notthat Hilary had come to tell them

something. But she did not like to ask him what it was, though she knew that in the presence of their trouble

Hilary was too delicate to obtrude his own. She did not like, either, to talk of her trouble in the presence of

his. They all talked, therefore, of indifferent thingswhat music they had heard, what plays they had

seeneating but little, and drinking tea. In the middle of a remark about the opera, Stephen, looking up, saw

Martin himself standing in the doorway. The young Sanitist looked pale, dusty, and dishevelled. He advanced

At that moment, fraught with such relief, such pure joy, such desire to say a thousand things, Cecilia could

"Then perhaps," said Stephen, regaining at once his dry composure, "you will give us some explanation of

"Then," said Stephen, "kindly understand that we have no use for you in future, or any of your sort."

Hilary and Cecilia had risen, too. There was silence. Stephen crossed to the door.

"You seem to me," he said suddenly, in his driest voice, "with your new manners and ideas, quite a

Cecilia stretched her hands out towards Martin, and there was a faint tinkling as of chains.

"You must know, dear," she said, "how anxious we've all been. Of course, your uncle doesn't mean that."

The same scornful tenderness with which he was wont to look at Thyme passed into Martin's face.

"All right, Aunt Cis," he said; "if Stephen doesn't mean it, he ought to. To mean things is what matters." He

stooped and kissed her forehead. "Give that to Thyme for me," he said. "I shan't see her for a bit."

"You'll never see her, sir," said Stephen dryly, "if I can help it! The liquor of your Sanitism is too bright and

Martin's smile broadened. "For old bottles," he said, and with another slow look round went out.

Stephen's mouth assumed its driest twist. "Bumptious young devil!" he said. "If that is the new young man,

Over the cool diningroom, with its faint scent of pinks, of melon, and of ham, came silence. Suddenly

Cecilia glided from the room. Her light footsteps were heard hurrying, now that she was not visible, up to

Hilary, too, had moved towards the door. In spite of his preoccupation, Stephen could not help noticing how

"Now that you've got Thyme back," he said, "I'd better let you know my news. I'm going abroad tomorrow.

Stephen gave a low whistle; then, pressing Hilary's arm, he said: "Anything you decide, old man, I'll always

"Thank Heaven for that! I was afraid you were beginning to lose your head about that girl"

"I'm not quite fool enough," said Hilary, "to imagine that such a liaison would be anything but misery in the

longrun. If I took the child I should have to stick to her; but I'm not proud of leaving her in the lurch,

"My dear old man, you're too kind. Why, she's no hold on younot the smallest in the world!"

"Except the hold of this devotion I've roused in her, God knows how, and her destitution."

"You let these people haunt you," said Stephen. "It's quite a mistakeit really is."

Stephen looked into his face without speaking, then with the utmost earnestness he said:

"However much you may be attracted, it's simply unthinkable for a man like you to go outside his class."

Stephen turned to the window. For all the care and contrivance bestowed on the view, far away to the left the

back courts of an alley could be seen; and as though some gadfly had planted in him its small poisonous

sting, he moved back from the sight at once. 'Confusion!' he thought. 'Are we never to get rid of these infernal

His eyes lighted on the melon. A single slice lay by itself on a bluegreen dish. Leaning over a plate, with a

desperation quite unlike himself, he took an enormous bite. Again and again he bit the slice, then almost

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. He suppressed it, and sat down at the bureau; he was suddenly

experiencing a sensation such as he had sometimes felt on a perfect day, or after physical danger, of too much

benefit, of something that he would like to return thanks for, yet knew not how. His hand stole to the inner

pocket of his black coat. It stole out again; there was a chequebook in it. Before his mind's eye, starting up

one after the other, he saw the names of the societies he supported, or meant sometime, if he could afford it,

to support. He reached his hand out for a pen. The still, small noise of the nib travelling across the cheques

These sounds Cecilia heard, when, from the open door, she saw the thin back of her husband's neck, with its

softly graduated hair, bent forward above the bureau. She stole over to him, and pressed herself against his

Stephen, staying the progress of his pen, looked up at her. Their eyes met, and, bending down, Cecilia put her

This same day, returning through Kensington Gardens, from his preparations for departure, Hilary came

To the eyes of the frequenters of these Elysian fields, where so many men and shadows daily steal recreation,

to the eyes of all drinking in those green gardens their honeyed draught of peace, this husband and wife

appeared merely a distinguishedlooking couple, animated by a leisured harmony. For the time was not yet

when men were one, and could tell by instinct what was passing in each other's hearts.

In truth, there were not too many people in London who, in their situation, would have behaved with such

Estranged, and soon to part, they retained the manner of accord up to the last. Not for them the matrimonial

brawl, the solemn accusation and recrimination, the pathetic protestations of proprietary rights. For them no

sacred view that at all costs they must make each other miserablenot even the belief that they had the right

to do so. No, there was no relief for their sore hearts. They walked side by side, treating each other's feelings

with respect, as if there had been no terrible heartturnings throughout the eighteen years in which they had

first loved, then, through mysterious disharmony, drifted apart; as if there were now between them no

"I've been into town and made my preparations; I'm starting tomorrow for the mountains. There will be no

It was beautifully uttered, without a trace of bias or curiosity, with an unforced accent, neither indifferent nor

too interestedno one could have told whether it was meant for generosity or malice. Hilary took it for the

Close to the edge of the Round Pond a swanlike cutter was putting out to sea; in the wake of this fair creature

a tiny scoopedout bit of wood, with three feathers for masts, bobbed and trembled; and the two small ragged

boys who owned that little galley were stretching bits of branch out towards her over the bright waters.

Bianca looked, without seeing, at this proof of man's pride in his own property. A thin gold chain hung round

her neck; suddenly she thrust it into the bosom of her dress. It had broken into two, between her fingers.

At the door of Hilary's study sat Miranda. The little person answered his caress by a shiver of her sleek skin,

The reason for her refusal was apparent when Hilary had entered. Close to the long bookcase, behind the bust

of Socrates, stood the little model. Very still, as if fearing to betray itself by sound or movement, was her

figure in its bluegreen frock, and a brimless toque of brown straw, with two purplish roses squashed

together into a band of darker velvet. Beside those roses a tiny peacock's feather had been slipped inunholy

little visitor, slanting backward, trying, as it were, to draw all eyes, yet to escape notice. And, wedged

between the grim white bust and the dark bookcase, the girl herself was like some unlawful spirit which had

Before this apparition Hilary recoiled towards the door, hesitated, and returned.

"You should not have come here," he muttered, "after what we said to you yesterday."

The little model answered quickly: "But I've seen Hughs, Mr. Dallison. He's found out where I live. Oh, he

She had come a little out of her hidingplace, and stood fidgeting her hands and looking down.

The little model gave him a furtive glance. "I did see him," she said. "I must go right away now; it wouldn't

Hilary thought suddenly: 'She is using my own weapon against me. If she has seen the man, he didn't frighten

There was a rustling round. The little model had moved out of her retreat, and stood between him and the

door. At this stealthy action, Hilary felt once more the tremor which had come over him when he sat beside

her in the Broad Walk after the baby's funeral. Outside in the garden a pigeon was pouring forth a continuous

love. song; Hilary heard nothing of it, conscious only of the figure of the girl behind himthat young. figure

She raised her hands to the level of her breast, as though she meant to clasp them together; without doing so,

however, she dropped them to her sides. They were cased in very worn suede gloves, and in this dire moment

of embarrassment Hilary's eyes fastened themselves on those slim hands moving against her skirt.

The little model tried at once to slip them away behind her. Suddenly she said in her matteroffact voice: "I

At this question, whose simplicity might have made an angel smile, Hilary experienced a sensation as if his

bones had been turned to water. It was strangedeliciousas though he had been suddenly offered all that

he wanted of her, without all those things that he did not want. He stood regarding her silently. Her cheeks

and neck were red; there was a red tinge, too, in her eyelids, deepening the "chicoryflower" colour of her

" I wouldn't be in your way. I wouldn't cost much. I could do everything you wanted. I could learn

typewriting. I needn't live too near, or that; if you didn't want me, because of people talking; I'm used to being

alone. Oh, Mr. Dallison, I could do everything for you. I wouldn't mind anything, and I'm not like some girls;

The little model seemed to know instinctively that by touching his spirit she had lost ground. Uncovering her

"Oh no, I'm not. I want to be let come; I don't want to stay here. I know I'll get into mischief if you don't take

"If I were to let you come with me," said Hilary, "what then? What sort of companion should I be to you, or

you to me? You know very well. Only one sort. It's no use pretending, child, that we've any interests in

"I know what I am," she said, "and I don't want to be anything else. I can do what you tell me to, and I shan't

"You're worth more," muttered Hilary, "than I can ever give you, and I'm worth more than you can ever give

The little model tried to answer, but her words would not pass her throat; she threw her head back trying to

free them, and stood, swaying. Seeing her like this before him, white as a sheet, with her eyes closed and her

lips parted, as though about to faint, Hilary seized her by the shoulders. At the touch of those soft shoulders,

his face became suffused with blood, his lips trembled. Suddenly her eyes opened ever so little between their

lids, and looked at him. And the perception that she was not really going to faint, that it was a little desperate

wile of this child Delilah, made him wrench away his hands. The moment she felt that grasp relax she sank

down and clasped his knees, pressing them to her bosom so that he could not stir. Closer and closer she

pressed them to her, till it seemed as though she must be bruising her flesh. Her breath came in sobs; her eyes

were closed; her lips quivered upwards. In the clutch of her clinging body there seemed suddenly the whole

of woman's power of selfabandonment. It was just that, which, at this moment, so horribly painful to him,

prevented Hilary from seizing her in his arms just that queer seeming selfeffacement, as though she were

lost to knowledge of what she did. It seemed too brutal, too like taking advantage of a child.

>From calm is born the wind, the ripple from the still pool, self out of nothingnessso all passes

imperceptibly, no man knows how. The little model's moment of selfoblivion passed, and into her wet eyes

her plain, twisting spirit suddenly writhed up again, for all the world as if she had said: 'I won't let you go; I'll

She rose obediently, choking down her sobs, mopping her face with a small, dirty handkerchief. Suddenly,

taking a step towards him, she clenched both her hands and struck them downwards.

"I'll go to the bad," she said" I willif you don't take me!" And, her breast heaving, her hair all loose,

she stared straight into his face with her redrimmed eyes. Hilary turned suddenly, took a book up from the

writingtable, and opened it. His face was again suffused with blood; his hands and lips trembled; his eyes

The little model gave him the look a dog gives you when it asks if you are deceiving him. She made a sign on

her breast, as a Catholic might make the sign of his religion, drawing her fingers together, and clutching at

herself with them, then passed her little dirty handkerchief once more over her eyes, and, turning round, went

Hilary remained standing where he was, reading the open book without apprehending what it was.

There was a wistful sound, as of breath escaping hurriedly. Mr. Stone was standing in the open doorway.

Hilary dropped the book; his nerves were utterly unstrung. Then, pointing to a chair, he said: "Won't you sit

"What is her trouble, then?" said Mr. Stone. The closeness of this catechism, the intent stare of the old man's

With the blood still beating in his temples, his lips still quivering, and the feeling of the girl's clasp round his

knees, he almost hated this old man who stood there putting such blind questions.

Then suddenly in Mr. Stone's eyes he saw a startling change, as in the face of a man who regains

consciousness after days of vacancy. His whole countenance had become alive with a sort of jealous

understanding. The warmth which the little model brought to his old spirit had licked up the fog of his Idea,

A flush spread slowly over Mr. Stone's face. He spoke with rare hesitation. In this sudden coming back to the

"I am not going," he stammered, "to ask you any more. I could not pry into a private matter. That would not

Hilary bowed, touched to the quick by the return to life of this old man, so long lost to facts, and by the

"I will not intrude further on your trouble," said Mr. Stone, "whatever it may be. I am sorry that you are

Hilary had evidently been right in thinking the little model was not speaking the truth when she said she had

seen Hughs, for it was not until early on the following morning that three persons traversed the long winding

road leading from Wormwood Scrubs to Kensington. They preserved silence, not because there was nothing

in their hearts to be expressed, but because there was too much; and they walked in the giraffelike formation

peculiar to the lower classesHughs in front; Mrs. Hughs to the left, a foot or two behind; and a yard behind

her, to the left again, her son Stanley. They made no sign of noticing anyone in the road besides themselves,

and no one in the road gave sign of noticing that they were there; but in their three minds, so differently

Beneath the seeming acquiescence of a man subject to domination from his birth up, those four words

covered in Hughs such a whirlpool of surging sensation, such ferocity of bitterness, and madness, and

defiance, that no outpouring could have appreciably relieved its course. The same four words summed up in

Mrs. Hughs so strange a mingling of fear, commiseration, loyalty, shame, and trembling curiosity at the new

factor which had come into the life of all this little family walking giraffelike back to Kensington that to

have gone beyond them would have been like plunging into a wintry river. To their son the four words were

as a legend of romance, conjuring up no definite image, lighting merely the glow of wonder.

The little boy took three steps at an increased pace, then fell behind again. His black eyes seemed to answer:

'You say that because you don't know what else to say.' And without alteration in their giraffelike formation,

In the heart of the seamstress doubt and fear were being slowly knit into dread of the first sound to pass her

husband's lips. What would he ask? How should she answer? Would he talk wild, or would he talk sensible?

Would he have forgotten that young girl, or had he nursed and nourished his wicked fancy in the house of

grief and silence? Would he ask where the baby was? Would he speak a kind word to her? But alongside her

dread there was guttering within her the undying resolution not to 'let him go from her, if it were ever so, to

Hoarse and grating, like sounds issuing from a damp vault, was this first speech.

Tears rolled down the seamstress's cheeks; she could not answer. Her little son's thin voice rose instead:

"Baby's dead. We buried him in the ground. I saw it. Mr. Creed came in the cab with me."

White flecks appeared suddenly at the corners of Hughs' lips. He wiped the back of his hand across his

"Westminister," in his threadbare summer jacketfor the day was warmhad been standing for some little

time in Mrs. Budgen's doorway on the ground floor at Hound Street. Knowing that Hughs was to be released

that morning early, he had, with the circumspection and foresight of his character, reasoned thus: 'I shan't lie

easy in my bed, I shan't hev no peace until I know that low feller's not agoin' to misdemean himself with me.

It's no good to go aputtin' of it off. I don't want him comin' to my room attackin' of old men. I'll be previous

with him in the passage. The lame woman 'll let me. I shan't trouble her. She'll be palliable between me and

But, as the minutes of waiting went by, his old tongue, like that of a dog expecting chastisement, appeared

ever more frequently to moisten his twisted, discoloured lips. 'This comes of mixin' up with soldiers,' he

thought, 'and a lowclass o' man like that. I ought to ha' changed my lodgin's. He'll be askin' me where that

young girl is, I shouldn't wonder, an' him lost his character and his job, and everything, and all because o'

He watched the broadfaced woman, Mrs. Budgen, in whose grey eyes the fighting light so fortunately never

died, painfully doing out her rooms, and propping herself against the chest of drawers whereon clustered

"I've told my Charlie," she said, "to keep clear of Hughs a bit. They comes out as prickly as hedgehogs. Pick

'Oh dear,' thought Creed, 'she's full o' cold comfort.' But, careful of his dignity, he answered, "I'm awaitin'

here to engage the situation. You don't think he'll attack of me with definition at this time in the mornin'?"

The lame woman shrugged her shoulders. "He'll have had a drop of something," she said, "before he comes

The old butler's heart quavered up into his mouth. He lifted his shaking hand, and put it to his lips, as though

"Oh yes," he said; "I ought to ha' given notice, and took my things away; but there, poor woman, it seemed

ahittin' of her when she was down. And I don't want to make no move. I ain't got no one else that's

interested in me. This woman's very good about mendin' of my clothes. Oh dear, yes; she don't grudge a little

The lame woman hobbled from her post of rest, and began to make the bed with the frown that always

accompanied a task which strained the contracted muscles of her leg. "If you don't help your neighbour, your

Creed fixed his ironrimmed gaze on her in silence. He was considering perhaps how he stood with regard to

The family of Hughs, indeed, stood in the doorway. The spiritual process by which "Westminister" had gone

through life was displayed completely in the next few seconds. 'It's so important for me to keep alive and

well,' his eyes seemed saying. 'I know the class of man you are, but now you're here it's not a bit o' use my

bein' frightened. I'm bound to get upsides with you. Ho! yes; keep yourself to yourself, and don't you let me

Beads of perspiration stood thick on his patchily coloured forehead; with lips stiffening, and intently staring

Hughs, whose face had blanched in the prison to a sallow greywhite hue, and whose black eyes seemed to

have sunk back into his head, slowly looked the old man up and down. At last he took his cap off, showing

"You got me that, daddy," he said, "but I don't bear you malice. Come up and have a cup o' tea with us."

And, turning on his heel, he began to mount the stairs, followed by his wife and child. Breathing hard, the old

In the room on the second floor, where the baby no longer lived, a haddock on the table was endeavouring to

be fresh; round it were slices of bread on plates, a piece of butter in a piedish, a teapot, brown sugar in a

basin, and, side by side a little jug of cold blue milk and a halfempty bottle of red vinegar. Close to one

plate a bunch of stocks and gilly flowers reposed on the dirty tablecloth, as though dropped and forgotten by

the God of Love. Their faint perfume stole through the other odours. The old butler fixed his eyes on it.

'The poor woman bought that,' he thought, 'hopin' for to remind him of old days. She had them flowers on her

weddin'day, I shouldn't wonder!" This poetical conception surprising him, he turned towards the little boy,

and said "This 'll be a memorial to you, as you gets older." And without another word all sat down. They ate

in silence, and the old butler thought 'That 'addick ain't what it was; but a beautiful cup o' tea. He don't eat

nothing; he's more ameniable to reason than I expected. There's no one won't be too pleased to see him now!"

His eyes, travelling to the spot from which the bayonet had been removed, rested on the print of the Nativity.

"'Suffer little children to come unto Me,'" he thought, "'and forbid them not." He'll be glad to hear there was

And, taking his time, he cleared his throat in preparation for speech. But before the singular muteness of this

family sounds would not come. Finishing his tea, he tremblingly arose. Things that he might have said jostled

in his mind. 'Very pleased to 'a seen you. Hope you're in good health at the present time of speaking. Don't let

me intrude on you. We've all agot to die some time or other!' They remained unuttered. Making a vague

movement of his skinny hand, he walked feebly but quickly to the door. When he stood but halfway within

"I'm not agoin' to say nothing," he said; "that'd be superlative! I wish you a goodmorning."

'For all he sets so quiet, they've done him no good in that place,' he thought. 'Them eyes of his!' And slowly

he descended, full of a sort of very deep surprise. 'I misjudged of him,' he was thinking; 'he never was nothing

but a 'armless human being. We all has our predijuicesI misjudged of him. They've broke his 'eart between

The silence in the room continued after his departure. But when the little boy had gone to school, Hughs rose

and lay down on the bed. He rested there, unmoving, with his face towards the wall, his arms clasped round

his head to comfort it. The seamstress, stealing about her avocations, paused now and then to look at him. If

he had raged at her, if he had raged at everything, it would not have been so terrifying as this utter silence,

which passed her comprehension this silence as of a man flung by the sea against a rock, and pinned there

with the life crushed out of him. All her inarticulate longing, now that her baby was gone, to be close to

something in her grey life, to pass the unfranchisable barrier dividing her from the world, seemed to well up,

Twice or three times she addressed him timidly by name, or made some trivial remark. He did not answer, as

though in very truth he had been the shadow of a man lying there. And the injustice of this silence seemed to

her so terrible. Was she not his wife? Had she not borne him five, and toiled to keep him from that girl? Was

it her fault if she had made his life a hell with her jealousy, as he had cried out that morning before he went

for her, and was "put away"? He was her "man." It had been her rightnay, more, her duty!

And still he lay there silent. From the narrow street where no traffic passed, the cries of a coster and distant

whistlings mounted through the unwholesome air. Some sparrows in the eave were chirruping incessantly.

The little sandy housecat had stolen in, and, crouched against the doorpost, was fastening her eyes on the

plate which, held the remnants of the fish. The seamstress bowed her forehead to the flowers on the table;

unable any longer to bear the mystery of this silence, she wept. But the dark figure on the bed only pressed

his arms closer round his head, as though there were within him a living death passing the speech of men.

The little sandy cat, creeping across the floor, fixed its claws in the backbone of the fish, and drew it beneath

Bianca did not see her husband after their return together from the Round Pond. She dined out that evening,

and in the morning avoided any interview. When Hilary's luggage was brought down and the cab summoned,

she slipped up to take shelter in her room. Presently the sound of his footsteps coming along the passage

Goodbye would be a mockery! Let him go with the words unsaid! And as though the thought had found its

way through the closed door, she heard his footsteps recede again. She saw him presently go out to the cab

with his head bent down, saw him stoop and pat Miranda. Hot tears sprang into her eyes. She heard the

The heart is like the face of an Eastern womanwarm and glowing, behind swathe on swathe of fabric. At

each fresh touch from the fingers of Life, some new corner, some hidden curve or angle, comes into view, to

When the cab had driven away there came into Bianca's heart a sense of the irreparable, and, mysteriously

entwined with that arid ache, a sort of bitter pity: What would happen to this wretched girl now that he was

gone? Would she go completely to the badtill she became one of those poor creatures like the figure in

"The Shadow," who stood beneath lampposts in the streets? Out of this speculation, which was bitter as the

taste of aloes, there came to her a craving for some palliative, some sweetness, some expression of that

instinct of fellowfeeling deep in each human breast, however disharmonic. But even with that craving was

mingled the itch to justify herself, and prove that she could rise above jealousy.

A child admitted her into the bleak passage that served for hall. The strange medley of emotions passing

through Bianca's breast while she stood outside the girl's door did not show in her face, which wore its

The room was in disorder, as though soon to be deserted. A closed and corded trunk stood in the centre of the

floor; the bed, stripped of clothing, lay disclosed in all the barrenness of discoloured ticking. The china

utensils of the washstand were turned head downwards. Beside that washstand the little model, with her hat

on the hat with the purplishpink roses and the little peacock's featherstood in the struck, shrinking

attitude of one who, coming forward in the expectation of a kiss, has received a blow.

Bianca's eyes travelled slowly over the blue beflowered walls and rustred doors; through the dusty closeness

of this dismantled room a rank scent of musk and violets rose, as though a cheap essence had been scattered

The little model edged closer to the window. A stealthy watchfulness was creeping into her shrinking, dazed

Obeying a sudden impulse to see more clearly, Bianca lifted her veil. "I came to tell you," she said, "that I

The girl did not answer, but suddenly through her black lashes she stole a look upward at her visitor. 'Can

you,' it seemed to say, 'youhelp me? Oh no; I think not!' And, as though she had been stung by that glance,

"It is my business, of course, entirely, now that Mr. Dallison has gone abroad."

The little model received this saying with a quivering jerk. It might have been an arrow transfixing her white

throat. For a moment she seemed almost about to fall, but, gripping the windowsill, held herself erect. Her

eyes, like an animal's in pain, darted here, there, everywhere, then rested on her visitor's breast, quite

motionless. This stare, which seemed to see nothing, but to be doing, as it were, some fateful calculation, was

uncanny. Colour came gradually back into her lips and eyes and cheeks; she seemed to have succeeded in her

And suddenly Bianca understood. This was the meaning of the packed trunk, the dismantled room. He was

They were enough. The girl's face at once lost all trace of its look of desperate calculation, brightened,

The antagonism of all the long past months was now declared between these twoBianca's pride could no

longer conceal, the girl's submissiveness no longer obscure it. They stood like duellists, one on each side of

the trunkthat common, brownJapanned, tin trunk, corded with rope. Bianca looked at it.

Against that cruel laughtermore poignant than a hundred homilies on caste, a thousand scornful

wordsthe little model literally could not stand; she sat down in the low chair where she had evidently been

sitting to watch the street. But as a taste of blood will infuriate a hound, so her own laughter seemed to

"What do you imagine he's taking you for, girl? Only out of pity! It's not exactly the emotion to live on in

"Wants you? As he wants his dinner. And when he's eaten itwhat then? No, of course he'll never abandon

you; his conscience is too tender. But you'll be round his necklike this!" Bianca raised her arms, looped,

The little model stammered: "I'll do what he tells me! I'll do what he tells me!"

Bianca stood silent, looking at the girl, whose heaving breast and little peacock's feather, whose small round

hands twisting in front of her, and scent about her clothes, all seemed an offence.

"And do you suppose that he'll tell you what he wants? Do you imagine he'll have the necessary brutality to

get rid of you? He'll think himself bound to keep you till you leave him, as I suppose you will some day!"

The girl dropped her hands. "I'll never leave himnever!" she cried out passionately.

The little model's eyes seemed to lose all pupil, like two chicory flowers that have no dark centres. Through

them, all that she was feeling struggled to find an outlet; but, too deep for words, those feelings would not

"I see; you imagine yourself capable of sacrifice. Well, you have your chance. Take it!" She pointed to the

The little model shrank back against the windowsill. "He wants me!" she muttered. "I know he wants me."

"Your idea of sacrifice," she said, "is perfect! If you went now, in a month's time he'd never think of you

The girl gulped. There was something so pitiful in the movements of her hands that Bianca turned away. She

But the girl's whole face had changed. All tearstained, indeed, she had already masked it with a sort of

The girl trembled violently all over. She moistened her lips, tried to speak, failed, again moistened them, and

The little model merely repeated: "I won'twon't do anything without he tells me!"

But the girl had turned abruptly to the window. Her lips were parted. She was shrinking, fluttering, trembling

at what she saw. She was indeed like a spaniel dog who sees her master coming. Bianca had no need of being

told that Hilary was outside. She went into the passage and opened the front door.

He was coming up the steps, his face worn like that of a man in fever, and at the sight of his wife he stood

Without the quiver of an eyelid, without the faintest trace of emotion, or the slightest sign that she knew him

Those who may have seen Hilary driving towards the little model's lodgings saw one who, by a fixed red spot

on either cheek, and the overcompression of his quivering lips, betrayed the presence of that animality

After eighteen hours of the purgatory of indecision, he had not so much decided to pay that promised visit on

which hung the future of two lives, as allowed himself to be borne towards the girl.

There was no one in the passage to see him after he had passed Bianca in the doorway, but it was with a face

darkened by the peculiar stabbing look of wounded egoism that he entered the little model's room.

The sight of it coming so closely on the struggle she had just been through was too much for the girl's

Instead of going up to him, she sat down on the corded trunk and began to sob. It was the sobbing of a child

whose schooltreat has been cancelled, of a girl whose balldress has not come home in time. It only irritated

Hilary, whose nerves had already borne all they could bear. He stood literally trembling, as though each one

of these common little sobs were a blow falling on the drumskin of his spirit; and through every fibre he

took in the features of the dusty, scentbesprinkled roomthe brown tin trunk, the dismantled bed, the

And he realised that she had burned her boats to make it impossible for a man of sensibility to disappoint her!

The little model raised her face and looked at him. What she saw must have been less reassuring even than

the first sight had been, for it stopped her sobbing. She rose and turned to the window, evidently trying with

handkerchief and powderpuff to repair the ravages caused by her tears; and when she had finished she still

stood there with her back to him. Her deep breathing made her young form quiver from her waist up to the

little peacock's feather in her hat; and with each supple movement it seemed offering itself to Hilary.

In the street a barrelorgan had begun to play the very waltz it had played the afternoon when Mr. Stone had

been so ill. Those two were neither of them conscious of that tune, too absorbed in their emotions; and yet,

quietly, it was bringing something to the girl's figure like the dowering of scent that the sun brings to a

flower. It was bringing the compression back to Hilary's lips, the flush to his ears and cheeks, as a draught of

wind will blow to redness a fire that has been choked. Without knowing it, without sound, inch by inch he

moved nearer to her; and as though, for all there was no sign of his advance, she knew of it, she stayed utterly

unmoving except for the deep breathing that so stirred the warm youth in her. In that stealthy progress was

the history of life and the mystery of sex. Inch by inch he neared her; and she swayed, mesmerising his arms

to fold round her thus poised, as if she must fall backward; mesmerising him to forget that there was anything

there, anything in all the world, but just her young form waiting for himnothing but that!

The barrelorgan stopped; the spell had broken! She turned round to him. As a wind obscures with grey

wrinkles the still green waters of enchantment into which some mortal has been gazing, so Hilary's reason

suddenly swept across the situation, and showed it once more as it was. Quick to mark every shade that

passed across his face, the girl made as though she would again burst into tears; then, since tears had been so

Hilary looked at that round, not too cleanly hand. He could see her watching him between her fingers. It was

uncanny, almost horrible, like the sight of a cat watching a bird; and he stood appalled at the terrible reality of

his position, at the sight of his own future with this girl, with her traditions, customs, life, the thousand and

one things that he did not know about her, that he would have to live with if he once took her. A minute

passed, which seemed eternity, for into it was condensed every force of her long pursuit, her instinctive

clutching at something that she felt to be security, her reaching upwards, her twining round him.

Conscious of all this, held back by that vision of his future, yet whipped towards her by his senses, Hilary

swayed like a drunken man. And suddenly she sprang at him, wreathed her arms round his neck, and fastened

her mouth to his. The touch of her lips was moist and hot. The scent of stale violet powder came from her,

warmed by her humanity. It penetrated to Hilary's heart. He started back in sheer physical revolt.

Thus repulsed, the girl stood rigid, her breast heaving, her eyes unnaturally dilated, her mouth still loosened

by the kiss. Snatching from his pocket a roll of notes, Hilary flung them on the bed.

"I can't take you!" he almost groaned. "It's madness! It's impossible!" And he went out into the passage. He

ran down the steps and got into his cab. An immense time seemed to pass before it began to move. It started

His mortified face was recognised by the landlady, returning from her morning's visit to the shops. The

gentleman looked, she thought, as if he had received bad news! She not unnaturally connected his appearance

with her lodger. Tapping on the girl's door, and receiving no answer, she went in.

The little model was lying on the dismantled bed, pressing her face into the blue and white ticking of the

bolster. Her shoulders shook, and a sound of smothered sobbing came from her. The landlady stood staring

Coming of Cornish chapelgoing stock, she had never liked this girl, her instinct telling her that she was one

for whom life had already been too much. Those for whom life had so early been too much, she knew, were

always "ones for pleasure!" Her experience of village life had enabled her to construct the little model's

storythat very simple, very frequent little story. Sometimes, indeed, trouble of that sort was soon over and

forgotten; but sometimes, if the young man didn't do the right thing by her, and the girl's folk took it hardly,

well, then! So had run the reasoning of this good woman. Being of the same class, she had looked at her

But seeing her now apparently so overwhelmed, and having something soft and warm down beneath her

The little model shook off the hand as a passionate child shakes itself free of consolation. "Let me alone!" she

Baffled by this dumb grief, the landlady was silent; then, with the stolidity of those whose lives are one long

And finding that the girl remained obstinately withdrawn from sight or sympathy, she moved towards the

"Well," she said, with ironical compassion, "if you want me, I'll be in the kitchen."

The little model remained lying on her bed. Every now and then she gulped, like a child flung down on the

grass apart from its comrades, trying to swallow down its rage, trying to bury in the earth its little black

moment of despair. Slowly those gulps grew fewer, feebler, and at last died away. She sat up, sweeping

At sight of that bundle she broke out afresh, flinging herself down sideways with her cheek on the wet

bolster; and, for some time after her sobs had ceased again, still lay there. At last she rose and dragged herself

over to the lookingglass, scrutinising her streaked, discoloured face, the stains in the cheeks, the swollen

eyelids, the marks beneath her eyes; and listlessly she tidied herself. Then, sitting down on the brown tin

trunk, she picked the bundle of notes off the floor. They gave forth a dry peculiar crackle. Fifteen ten pound

notesall Hilary's travelling money. Her eyes opened wider and wider as she counted; and tears, quite

Then slowly she undid her dress, and forced them down till they rested, with nothing but her vest between

At halfpast ten that evening Stephen walked up the stoneflagged pathway of his brother's house.

"Mr. Hilary went abroad this morning, sir, and Mrs. Hilary has not yet come in."

"Will you give her this letter? No, I'll wait. I suppose I can wait for her in the garden?"

Stephen walked across to the rustic bench and sat down. He stared gloomily through the dusk at his

patentleather boots, and every now and then he flicked his evening trousers with the letter. Across the dark

garden, where the boughs hung soft, unmoved by wind, the light from Mr. Stone's open window flowed out

in a pale river; moths, born of the sudden heat, were fluttering up this river to its source.

Stephen looked irritably at the figure of Mr. Stone, which could be seen, bowed, and utterly still, beside his

desk; so, by lifting the spyhole thatch, one may see a convict in his cell stand gazing at his work, without

'He's getting awfully broken up,' thought Stephen. 'Poor old chap! His ideas are killing him. They're not

human nature, never will be.' Again he flicked his trousers with the letter, as though that document

He rose, the better to see his fatherinlaw's unconscious figure. It looked as lifeless and as cold as though

Mr. Stone had followed some thought below the ground, and left his body standing there to await his return.

Mr. Stone's figure moved; the sound of along sigh came out to Stephen in the windless garden. He turned his

eyes away, with the sudden feeling that it was not the thing to watch the old chap like this; then, getting up,

he went indoors. In his brother's study he stood turning over the knickknacks on the writingtable.

However much he had secretly disapproved of her from the beginning, because she had always seemed to

him such an uncomfortable and tantalising person, Stephen was impressed that night by the haunting

unhappiness of Bianca's face; as if it had been suddenly disclosed to him that she could not help herself. This

"You look tired, B.," he said. "I'm sorry, but I thought it better to bring this round tonight."

"But I wish you to hear it, please," he said. "I'll read it out, if you'll allow me.

"'I told you yesterday morning that I was going abroad alone. Afterwards I changed my mindI meant to

take her. I went to her lodgings for the purpose. I have lived too long amongst sentiments for such a piece of

reality as that. Class has saved me; it has triumphed over my most primitive instincts.

"'I am going aloneback to my sentiments. No slight has been placed on Biancabut my married life

having become a mockery, I shall not return to it. The following address will find me, and I shall ask you

With a frown Stephen folded up the letter, and restored it to his breast pocket.

'It's more bitter than I thought,' he reflected; 'and yet he's done the only possible thing!'

Bianca was leaning her elbow on the mantelpiece with her face turned to the wall. Her silence irritated

"I'm very much relieved, of course," he said at last. "It would have been fatal"

She did not move, and Stephen became increasingly aware that this was a most awkward matter to touch on.

"Of course," he began again. "But, B., I do think youratherI mean" And again he stopped before her

utter silence, her utter immobility. Then, unable to go away without having in some sort expressed his loyalty

to Hilary, he tried once more: "Hilary is the kindest man I know. It's not his fault if he's out of touch with

And having thus in a single word, somewhat to his own astonishment, described his brother, he held out his

The hand which Bianca placed in it was feverishly hot. Stephen felt suddenly compunctious.

"I'm awfully sorry," he stammered, "about the whole thing. I'm awfully sorry for you"

'What are you to do with women like that?' was his thought, and saying dryly, "Goodnight, B.," he went.

For some time Bianca sat in Hilary's chair. Then, by the faint glimmer coming through the halfopen door,

she began to wander round the room, touching the walls, the books, the prints, all the familiar things among

In that dim continual journey she was like a disharmonic spirit traversing the air above where its body lies.

"You must go to bed, Dad," she said, trying to get him to the door, for in her heart something seemed giving

Mr. Stone stumbled; the door swung to; the room was plunged in darkness. A hand, cold as ice, brushed her

His hand, wandering downwards, touched her shoulder, and she seized it with her own burning hand. Thus

By the light of his now open door Mr. Stone seemed to try and see her face, but she would not show it him.

Sitting down in her bedroom by the open window, it seemed to her that the room was full of peopleher

nerves were so unstrung. It was as if walls had not the power this night to exclude human presences. Moving,

or motionless, now distinct, then covered suddenly by the thick veil of some material object, they circled

round her quiet figure, lying back in the chair with shut eyes. These disharmonic shadows flitting in the room

made a stir like the rubbing of dry straw or the hum of bees among clover stalks. When she sat up they

vanished, and the sounds became the distant din of homing traffic; but the moment she closed her eyes, her

She fell asleep presently, and woke with a start. There, in a glimmer of pale light, stood the little model, as in

the fatal picture Bianca had painted of her. Her face was powder white, with shadows beneath the eyes.

Breath seemed coming through her parted lips, just touched with colour. In her hat lay the tiny peacock's

feather beside the two purplishpink roses. A scent came from her, toobut faint, as ever was the scent of

chicory flower. How long had she been standing there? Bianca started to her feet, and as she rose the vision

She went towards the spot. There was nothing in that corner but moonlight; the scent she had perceived was

But so vivid had that vision been that she stood at the window, panting for air, passing her hand again and

Outside, over the dark gardens, the moon hung full and almost golden. Its honeypale light filtered down on

every little shape of tree, and leaf, and sleeping flower. That soft, vibrating radiance seemed to have woven

all into one mysterious whole, stilling disharmony, so that each little separate shape had no meaning to itself.

Bianca looked long at the rain of moonlight falling on the earth's carpet, like a covering shower of blossom

which bees have sucked and spilled. Then, below her, out through candescent space, she saw a shadow dart

forth along the grass, and to her fright a voice rose, tremulous and clear, seeming to seek enfranchisement

beyond the barrier of the dark trees: "My brain is clouded. Great Universe! I cannot write! I can no longer

discover to my brothers that they are one. I am not worthy to stay here. Let me pass into You, and die!"

Bianca saw her father's fragile arms stretch out into the night through the sleeves of his white garment, as

though expecting to be received at once into the Universal Brotherhood of the thin air.

There ensued a moment, when, by magic, every little dissonance in all the town seemed blended into a

Then, breaking that trance, Mr. Stone's voice rose again, trembling out into the night, as though blown

Behind the screen of lilac bushes at the gate Bianca saw the dark helmet of a policeman. He stood there

staring steadily in the direction of that voice. Raising his lantern, he flashed it into every corner of the garden,

searching for those who had been addressed. Satisfied, apparently, that no one was there, he moved it to right