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 life--this 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 long-suffering to a fault. Beneath
all manner of kindness and consideration for each other--for their good
taste, at all events, had never given way--this 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 against him, a feeling that it was not she who was to
blame.

Pride was Bianca's fate, her flavour, and her charm. Like a shadowy
hill-side behind glamorous bars of waning sunlight, she was enveloped
in smiling pride--mysterious; 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 fond of. She would not admit her longing to attract him.

Standing between those two pictures, pressing her mahl-stick against her
bosom, she suggested somewhat the image of an Italian saint forcing the
dagger of martyrdom into her heart.

That other person, who had once brought the thought of Italy into
Cecilia's mind--the man Hughs--had 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 aspe