ne could not well do without her; Bianca had in effect
declared that she was being driven out of her own house. It was this
situation which Hilary, seated beneath the bust of Socrates, turned
over and over in his mind. Long and painful reflection brought him back
continually to the thought that he himself, and not Bianca, had better
go away. He was extremely bitter and contemptuous towards himself that
he had not done so long ago. He made use of the names Martin had given
him. "Hamlet," "Amateur," "Invertebrate." They gave him, unfortunately,
little comfort.

In the afternoon he received a visit. Mr. Stone came in with his osier
fruit-bag in his hand. He remained standing, and spoke at once.

"Is my daughter happy?"

At this unexpected question Hilary walked over to the fireplace.

"No," he said at last; "I am afraid she is not."

"Why?"

Hilary was silent; then, facing the old man, he said:

"I think she will be glad, for certain reasons, if I go away for a
time."

"When are you going?" asked Mr. Stone.

"As soon as I can."

Mr. Stone's eyes, wistfully bright, seemed trying to see through heavy
fog.

"She came to me, I think," he said; "I seem to recollect her crying. You
are good to her?"

"I have tried to be," said Hilary.

Mr. Stone's face was discoloured by a flush. "You have no children," he
said painfully; "do you live together?"

Hilary shook his head.

"You are estranged?" said Mr. Stone.

Hilary bowed. There was a long silence. Mr. Stone's eyes had travelled
to the window.

"Without love there cannot be life," he said at last; and fixing his
wistful gaze on Hilary, asked: "Does she love another?"

Again Hilary shook his head.

When Mr. Stone next spoke it was clearly to himself.

"I do not know why I am glad. Do you love another?"

At this question Hilary's eyebrows settled in a frown. "What do you mean
by love?" he said.

Mr. Stone did not reply; it was evident that he was reflecting deeply.
His lips began to move: "By love I mean the forgetfulness of self.
Unions are frequent in which only the sexual instincts, or the
remembrance of self, are roused---"

"That is true," muttered Hilary.

Mr. Stone looked up; painful traces of confusion showed in his face.

"We were discussing something."

"I was telling you," said Hilary, "that it would be better for your
daughter--if I go away for a time."

"Yes," said Mr. Stone; "you are estranged."

Hilary went back to his stand befo