stone which hid so much of sadness should not declare it in some way
unmistakable to him. Odd that he could no more tell at what elevation,
whether just above him or nearer the roof, she lay, as odd that,
wherever it might be, she was equally unknowing that someone was
thinking of her with such intensity so near. He walked along, looking
for the number Carminow had mentioned, found he had passed it, and
turned back to see it was the house one door further down than that at
which he had first stopped. He looked at the door as though it could fly
open and bid him enter; he pictured with a vividness he could not
suppress her entrance there, carried, her head lolling on her breast.
Several times he walked up and down, wondering if she would care to see
him, trying to remember if she had ever shown any predilection for him
which could make him think she would. Then he turned away and went on,
the thought of her and the pity of her going with him. He was not
surprised when at supper Carminow began to speak of her; it seemed as
though it would not be possible to sit so near to himself and not feel
the trend of his thoughts.

"I saw Hilaria yesterday," said Carminow, "and I asked her if she
wanted to see you two. I thought she might, but she waited a minute and
then let me know most unmistakably that she would rather not. She can
only speak very queerly now--most painful business--and make a few
gestures, but there was no mistaking her. I expect it would have been
too much for her anyway."

Both his listeners felt a half-guilty relief, and that night when alone
in his room Ishmael, aided by that glimpse of the exterior of her
surroundings and by Carminow's words, was assailed again by the thought
of her, but not as keenly as before. Shocked senses had been responsible
for that first keenness, and imagination, however aided, could not sting