fix an indelible
image on her mind. There was something terrifying in that stare, cruel
to herself, cruel to the girl.

"The precise word," said Mr. Stone, "eludes me. Leave a blank.
Follow!... 'Neither that sweet fraternal interest of man in man, nor a
curiosity in phenomena merely as phenomena....'" His voice pursued its
tenuous path through spaces, frozen by the calm eternal presence of
his beloved idea, which, like a golden moon, far and cold, presided
glamorously above the thin track of words. And still the girl's
pen-point traced his utterance across the pages: Mr. Stone paused again,
and looking at his daughter as though surprised to see her sitting
there, asked:

"Do you wish to speak to me, my dear?"

Blanca shook her head.

"Follow!" said Mr. Stone.

But the little model's glance had stolen round to meet the scrutiny
fixed on her.

A look passed across her face which seemed to say: 'What have I done to
you, that you should stare at me like this?'

Furtive and fascinated, her eyes remained fixed on Bianca, while her
hand moved, mechanically ticking the paragraphs. That silent duel of
eyes went on--the woman's fixed, cruel, smiling; the girl's uncertain,
resentful. Neither of them heard a word that Mr. Stone was reading. They
treated it as, from the beginning, Life has treated Philosophy--and to
the end will treat it.

Mr. Stone paused again, seeming to weigh his last sentences.

"That, I think," he murmured to himself, "is true." And suddenly he
addressed his daughter. "Do you agree with me, my dear?"

He was evidently waiting with anxiety for her answer, and the little
silver hairs that straggled on his lean throat beneath his beard were
clearly visible.

"Yes, Father, I agree."

"Ah!" said Mr. Stone, "I am glad that you confirm me. I was anxious.
Follow!"

Bianca rose. Burning spots of colour had settled in her cheeks. She went
towards the door, and the little model pursued her figure with a long
look, cringing, mutinous, and wistful.

CHAPTER XX

THE HUSBAND AND THE WIFE

It was past six o'clock when Hilary at length reached home, preceded
a little by Miranda, who almost felt within her the desire to eat. The
lilac bushes, not yet in flower, were giving forth spicy fragrance. The
sun still netted their top boughs, as with golden silk, and a blackbird,
seated on a low branch of the acacia-tree, was summoning the evening.
Mr. Stone, accompanied by the little model, dressed in her