about for signs of Hilary, Mr. Stone would sit down rather suddenly and
fall asleep, to dream, perhaps, of Youth--Youth with its scent of sap,
its close beckonings; Youth with its hopes and fears; Youth that hovers
round us so long after it is dead! His spirit would smile behind its
covering--that thin china of his face; and, as dogs hunting in their
sleep work their feet, so he worked the fingers resting on his woollen
knees.

The seven o'clock alarum woke him to the preparation of the evening
meal. This eaten, he began once more to pace up and down, to pour words
out into the silence, and to drive his squeaking quill.

So was being written a book such as the world had never seen!

But the girl who came so moodily to bring him refreshment, and went so
moodily away, never in these days caught a glimpse of that which she was
seeking.

Since the morning when he had left her abruptly, Hilary had made a point
of being out in the afternoons and not returning till past six o'clock.
By this device he put off facing her and himself, for he could no longer
refuse to see that he had himself to face. In the few minutes of utter
silence when the girl sat beside him, magnetic, quivering with awakening
force, he had found that the male in him was far from dead. It was no
longer vague, sensuous feeling; it was warm, definite desire. The more
she was in his thoughts, the less spiritual his feeling for this girl of
the people had become.

In those days he seemed much changed to such as knew him well. Instead
of the delicate, detached, slightly humorous suavity which he had