ask you presently
to send on my household gods.

"'Please let Bianca know the substance of this letter.

"'Ever your affectionate brother,

"'HILARY DALLISON."'

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 Stephen, whose loyalty to his brother
longed to fend a vent.

"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 you--rather--I
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
life--if he's not fit to deal with things. He's negative!"

And having thus in a single word, somewhat to his own astonishment,
described his brother, he held out his hand.

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---"

Bianca drew back her hand.

With a little shrug Stephen turned away.

'What are you to do with women like that?' was his thought, and saying
dryly, "Good-night, B.," he went.

For some time Bianca sat in Hilary's chair. Then, by the faint glimmer
coming through the half-open door, she began to wander round the room,
touching the walls, the books, the prints, all the familiar things among
which he had lived so many years....

In that dim continual journey she was like a disharmonic spirit
traversing the air above where its body lies.

The door creaked behind her. A voice said sharply:

"What are you doing in this house?"

Mr. Stone was standing beside the bust of Socrates. Bianca went up to
him.

"Father!"

Mr. Stone stared. "It is you! I thought it was a thief! Where is
Hilary?"

"Gone away."

"Alone?"

Bianca bowed her head. "It is very late, Dad," she whispered.

Mr. Stone's hand moved as though he would have stroked her.

"The human heart," he murmured, "is the tomb of many feelings."

Bianca put her arm round him.

"You