dy half disengaged
from the subject, her eye wandered as if in search for the avenue to
another. By a sudden inclination Alicia began the story of Laura
Filbert on her knees at Lindsay's door. She told it in a quiet, steady,
colourless way, pursuing it to the end--it came with the ease of
frequent private rehearsals--and then with her elbows on her knees and
her chin in her palms she stopped and gazed meditatively in front of
her. There was something in the gaze to which Hilda yielded an attention
unexpectedly serious, something of the absolute in character and life
impervious to her inquiry. Yet to analysis it was only the grey look
of eyes habituated to regard the future with penetration and to find
nothing there.

"Have you told him?" Hilda asked after an instant's pause, during which
she conceded something, she hardly knew what; she meant to find out
later.

"I haven't seen him. But I will tell him, I promise you."

"I have no doubt you will! But don't promise ME. I won't even witness
the vow!" Hilda cried.

"What does it matter? I shall certainly tell him." The words fell
definitely like pebbles. Hilda thoughtfully picked them up.

"On the whole," she said, "perhaps it would be as well. Yes, it is
my advice. It is quite likely that he will be revolted. It may be
curative."

Alicia turned away her head to hide the faint frown that nevertheless
crept into her voice. "I don't think so," she said. "How you do juggle
with things! I don't know why I talk to you about this--this matter. I
am sure I ought not."

"I was going to say," pursued Hilda, indifferent to her scruple, "that
I shouldn't be at all surprised if his illness leaves him quite
emotionally sane. The poison has worked itself out of his blood--perhaps
the passion and the poison were the same."

"I wonder!" Alicia said. She said it mechanically, as the easiest
comment.

"When I knew you first your speculation would have been more active, my
dear. You would have looked into the possibility and disputed it. What
has become of your modernity?"

It was the tenderest malice, but it obtained no concessive sign. Alicia
seemed to weigh it. "I think I like theories better than illustrations,"
she said in defence.

"One can look at theories as one looks at the sky, but an illustration
wants a careful point of view. For this one perhaps you are a little
near."

"Perhaps," Alicia assented, "I am a little near." She glanced quickly
down as she spoke, but