een dish. Leaning over a plate, with a desperation quite unlike
himself, he took an enormous bite. Again and again he bit the slice,
then almost threw it from him, and dipped his fingers in a bowl.

'Thank God!' he thought, 'that's over! What an escape!'

Whether he meant Hilary's escape or Thyme's was doubtful, but there came
on him a longing to rush up to his little daughter's room, and hug her.
He suppressed it, and sat down at the bureau; he was suddenly
experiencing a sensation such as he had sometimes felt on a perfect day,
or after physical danger, of too much benefit, of something that he would
like to return thanks for, yet knew not how. His hand stole to the inner
pocket of his black coat. It stole out again; there was a cheque-book in
it. Before his mind's eye, starting up one after the other, he saw the
names of the societies he supported, or meant sometime, if he could
afford it, to support. He reached his hand out for a pen. The still,
small noise of the nib travelling across the cheques mingled with the
buzzing of a single fly.

These sounds Cecilia heard, when, from the open door, she saw the thin
back of her husband's neck, with its softly graduated hair, bent forward
above the bureau. She stole over to him, and pressed herself against his
arm.

Stephen, staying the progress of his pen, looked up at her. Their eyes
met, and, bending down, Cecilia put her cheek to his.

CHAPTER XXXVII

THE FLOWERING OF THE ALOE

This same day, returning through Kensington Gardens, from his
preparations for departure, Hilary came suddenly on Bianca standing by
the shores of the Round Pond.

To the eyes of the frequenters of these Elysian fields, where so many men
and shadows daily steal recreation, to the eyes of all drinking in those
green gardens their honeyed draught of peace, this husband and wife
appeared merely a distinguished-looking couple, animated by a leisured
harmony. For the time was not yet when men were one, and could tell by
instinct what was passing in each other's hearts.

In truth, there were not too many people in London who, in their
situation, would have behaved with such seemliness--not too many so
civilised as they!

Estranged, and soon to part, they retained the manner of accord up to the
last. Not for them the matrimonial brawl, the solemn accusation and
recrimination, the pathetic protestations of proprietary rights. For them
no sacred view that at all costs they mus