pected outburst by a look, and
Stephen, with the strange feeling of inferiority which would come to
him in Hilary's presence against his better judgment, lowered his own
glance.

"My dear boy," said Hilary, "if any bit of my character has crept into
Thyme, I'm truly sorry."

Stephen took his brother's hand and gave it a good grip; and, Cecilia
coming in, they all sat down.

Cecilia at once noted what Stephen in his preoccupation had not--that
Hilary had come to tell them something. But she did not like to ask
him what it was, though she knew that in the presence of their trouble
Hilary was too delicate to obtrude his own. She did not like, either, to
talk of her trouble in the presence of his. They all talked, therefore,
of indifferent things--what music they had heard, what plays they had
seen--eating but little, and drinking tea. In the middle of a remark
about the opera, Stephen, looking up, saw Martin himself standing in
the doorway. The young Sanitist looked pale, dusty, and dishevelled. He
advanced towards Cecilia, and said with his usual cool determination:

"I've brought her back, Aunt Cis."

At that moment, fraught with such relief, such pure joy, such desire to
say a thousand things, Cecilia could only murmur: "Oh, Martin!"

Stephen, who had jumped up, asked: "Where is she?"

"Gone to her room."

"Then perhaps," said Stephen, regaining at once his dry composure, "you
will give us some explanation of this folly."

"She's no use to us at present."

"Indeed!"

"None."

"Then," said Stephen, "kindly understand that we have no use for you in
future, or any of your sort."

Martin looked round the table, resting his eyes on each in turn.

"You're right," he said. "Good-bye!"

Hilary and Cecilia had risen, too. There was silence. Stephen crossed to
the door.

"You seem to me," he said suddenly, in his driest voice, "with your new
manners and ideas, quite a pernicious youth."

Cecilia stretched her hands out towards Martin, and there was a faint
tinkling as of chains.

"You must know, dear," she said, "how anxious we've all been. Of course,
your uncle doesn't mean that."

The same scornful tenderness with which he was wont to look at Thyme
passed into Martin's face.

"All right, Aunt Cis," he said; "if Stephen doesn't mean it, he ought
to. To mean things is what matters." He stooped and kissed her forehead.
"Give that to Thyme for me," he said. "I shan't see her for a bit."

"You'll never s