e sight at once. 'Confusion!' he thought.
'Are we never to get rid of these infernal people?'

His eyes lighted on the melon. A single slice lay by itself on a
blue-green 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 ma