that she saw it thus. The more she tried to
distinguish between Edwin's reality and her fancies concerning Edwin,
the less she succeeded. She would pronounce positively that her fancies
were absurd and even despicable. But this abrupt positiveness did not
convince. Supposing that he was after all marvellous among men! During
the day she had taken advantage of the mention of his name to ascertain
discreetly some details of the legendary feat by which as a boy he had
saved his father's printing-shop from destruction. The details were
vague, and not very comprehensible, but they seemed to indicate on his
part an astounding presence of mind, a heroic promptitude in action.
Assuredly, the Orgreaves regarded him as a creature out of the common
run. And at the same time they all had the air of feeling rather sorry
for him.

Standing near the supper-table, Hilda listened intently for the sound of
his voice among the other voices in the drawing-room. But she could not
separate it from the rest. Perhaps he was keeping silence. She said to
herself: "Yet what do I care whether he is keeping silence or not?"

Mr. Orgreave remarked, in the suspense, glancing ironically at his wife:

"I think I'll go upstairs and do an hour's planning. They aren't likely
to be more than an hour, I expect?"

"Hilda," said Mrs. Orgreave, quite calm, but taking her husband quite
seriously, "will you please go and tell those young men from me that
supper is waiting?"

II

Of course Hilda obeyed, though it appeared strange to her that Mrs.
Orgreave had not sent Alicia on such an errand. Passing out of the
bright dining-room where the gas was lit, she hesitated a moment in the
dark broad corridor that led to the drawing-room. The mission, she felt,
would make her rather prominent in front of Edwin Clayhanger, the
stranger, and she had an objection to being prominent in front of him;
she had, indeed, taken every possible precaution against such a danger.
"How silly I am to loiter here!" she thought. "I might be Alicia!"

The boys, she could now hear, were discussing French literature, and in
particular Victor Hugo. When she caught the name of Victor Hugo she
lifted her chin, and moved forward a little. She worshipped Victor Hugo
with a passion unreflecting and intense, simply because certain detached
lines from his poems were the most splendid occupants of her memory,
dignifying every painful or sordid souvenir. At last Charlie's clear,
gay voice s