re was a
silence. Then Hilary said:

"If Bianca won't get that child into some fresh place, I shall."

Stephen looked at his brother in surprise, amounting almost to dismay;
he had spoken with such unwonted resolution.

"My dear old chap," he said, "I wouldn't go to B. Women are so funny."

Hilary smiled. Stephen took this for a sign of restored impersonality.

"I'll tell you exactly how the thing appeals to me. It'll be much better
for you to chuck it altogether. Let Cis see to it!"

Hilary's eyes became bright with angry humour.

"Many thanks," he said, "but this is entirely our affair."

Stephen answered hastily:

"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 say--giving the girl clothes and that kind
of thing---"

"I see," said Hilary.

"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 on--on terms, of
course it would be different. I mean the girl, you know, is rather
attractive in her way."

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 Hilary--result, perhaps, of the
latter's seniority, perhaps of the feeling that Hilary knew more of him
than he of Hilary--was beginning to assert itself in a way he did not
like. With every word, too, of this talk, the ground, instead of growing
firmer, felt less and less secure. Hilary spoke:

"You mistrust my powers of action?"

"No, no," said Stephen. "I don't want you to act at all."

Hilary laughed. Hearing that rather bitter laugh, Stephen felt a little
ache about his heart.

"Come, old boy," he said, "we can trust each other, anyway."

Hilary gave his brother's arm a squeeze.

Moved by that pressure, Stephen spoke:

"I hate you to be worried over such a rotten business."

The whizz of a motor-car 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 the road.

"There's a symbol for you," muttered Hilary.

"How do you mean?" said Stephen dryly. The word "symbol" was distasteful
to him.

"