trimonial brawl, the solemn accusation and
recrimination, the pathetic protestations of proprietary rights.
For them no sacred view that at all costs they must make each other
miserable--not even the belief that they had the right to do so. No,
there was no relief for their sore hearts. They walked side by side,
treating each other's feelings with respect, as if there had been no
terrible heart-turnings throughout the eighteen years in which they had
first loved, then, through mysterious disharmony, drifted apart; as if
there were now between them no question of this girl.

Presently Hilary said:

"I've been into town and made my preparations; I'm starting tomorrow for
the mountains. There will be no necessity for you to leave your father."

"Are you taking her?"

It was beautifully uttered, without a trace of bias or curiosity, with
an unforced accent, neither indifferent nor too interested--no one could
have told whether it was meant for generosity or malice. Hilary took it
for the former.

"Thank you," he said; "but that comedy is finished."

Close to the edge of the Round Pond a swanlike cutter was putting out to
sea; in the wake of this fair creature a tiny scooped-out bit of wood,
with three feathers for masts, bobbed and trembled; and the two small
ragged boys who owned that little galley were stretching bits of branch
out towards her over the bright waters.

Bianca looked, without seeing, at this proof of man's pride in his own
property. A thin gold chain hung round her neck; suddenly she thrust
it into the bosom of her dress. It had broken into two, between her
fingers.

They reached home without another word.

At the door of Hilary's study sat Miranda. The little person answered
his caress by a shiver of her sleek skin, then curled herself down again
on the spot she had already warmed.

"Aren't you coming in with me?" he said.

Miranda did not move.

The reason for her refusal was apparent when Hilary had entered. Close
to the long bookcase, behind the bust of Socrates, stood the little
model. Very still, as if fearing to betray itself by sound or movement,
was her figure in its blue-green frock, and a brimless toque of brown
straw, with two purplish roses squashed together into a band of darker
velvet. Beside those roses a tiny peacock's feather had been slipped
in--unholy little visitor, slanting backward, trying, as it were, to
draw all eyes, yet to escape notice. And, wedged between the grim