ging-house surroundings.

"It must be rotten," said Ishmael in heartfelt accents. "I know how I
felt in the parlour at home after my sister Vassie had done it up for my
return. I felt as though the woolly mats were choking me. And I couldn't
say anything for fear of hurting her feelings."

"And have you got used to it? That's what I'm always so afraid
of--getting used to ugliness."

"Vassie has altered. She is the cleverest girl at picking up ideas I've
ever known, and somehow when Killigrew was down with us she soon found
out, though I don't think he actually said anything. And we have
beautiful old furniture hidden away in the attics, so we simply pulled
it all out, and Vassie and Phoebe are making new needlework seats for
the chairs."

"Is Phoebe another sister?"

"Oh, no; she's the daughter of Mr. Lenine, the miller. She was at
boarding-school in Plymouth with Vassie, and they're just like sisters,"
said Ishmael in the simplicity of his heart.

"How nice!" said Blanche Grey.

So it was settled between them that Blanche should renew her
acquaintance with the country that summer at Cloom, and when Ishmael
left he walked on air. It was not that he was excited so much as that a
deep content filled him; life seemed full of promise and even more
worth living than he had thought it. The distrust which that news of
Carminow's had engendered drifted to the back of his brain; he wandered
through the streets, picturing the days to come at Cloom. He came to a
pause at last, aware that he had missed the way to the hotel where he
was to sup with Carminow and Killigrew. He looked at the name of the
street he was in, and saw that it was the name Carminow had mentioned as
being that of the street where Hilaria was lodged.

He stood between the rows of houses and tried to realise that one of
them sheltered Hilaria. He stood quite still, beset by the same thoughts
as on the first evening he had been told of her. He looked up at the
houses and wondered which it was; it seemed odd that the bricks and
stone which hid so much of sadness should not declare it in some way
unmistakable to him. Odd that he could no more tell at what elevation,
whether just above him or nearer the roof, she lay, as odd that,
wherever it might be, she was equally unknowing that someone was
thinking of her with such intensity so near. He walked along, looking
for the number Carminow had mentioned, found he had passed it, and
turned back to see it was t