they looked! She felt a little glow of satisfaction that she was
making this thin and bent old man behind her conscious of his egoism.

'He will know better another time,' she thought. Suddenly she heard a
whistling, squeaking sound--it was Mr. Stone whispering the third page of
his manuscript:

"'---animated by some admirable sentiments, but whose doctrines--riddled
by the fact that life is but the change of form to form--were too
constricted for the evils they designed to remedy; this little sect, who
had as yet to learn the meaning of universal love, were making the most
strenuous efforts, in advance of the community at large, to understand
themselves. The necessary, movement which they voiced--reaction against
the high-tide of the fratricidal system then prevailing--was young, and
had the freshness and honesty of youth....'"

Without a word Cecilia turned round and hurried to the door. She saw her
father drop the sheet of paper; she saw his face, all pink and silver,
stooping after it; and remorse visited her anger.

In the corridor outside she was arrested by a noise. The uncertain light
of London halls fell there; on close inspection the sufferer was seen to
be Miranda, who, unable to decide whether she wanted to be in the garden
or the house, was seated beneath the hatrack snuffling to herself. On
seeing Cecilia she came out.

"What do you want, you little beast?"

Peering at her over the tops of her eyes, Miranda vaguely lifted a white
foot. 'Why ask me that?' she seemed to say. 'How am I to know? Are we
not all like this?'

Her conduct, coming at that moment, over-tried Cecilia's nerves. She
threw open Hilary's study-door, saying sharply: "Go in and find your
master!"

Miranda did not move, but Hilary came out instead. He had been
correcting proofs to catch the post, and wore the look of a man
abstracted, faintly contemptuous of other forms of life.

Cecilia, once more saved from the necessity of approaching her sister,
the mistress of the house, so fugitive, haunting, and unseen, yet so much
the centre of this situation, said:

"Can I speak to you a minute, Hilary?"

They went into his study, and Miranda came creeping in behind.

To Cecilia her brother-in-law always seemed an amiable and more or less
pathetic figure. In his literary preoccupations he allowed people to
impose on him. He looked unsubstantial beside the bust of Socrates,
which moved Cecilia strangely--it was so very mas