accustomed people to expect from him, the dry kindliness which seemed
at once to check confidence and yet to say, 'If you choose to tell me
anything, I should never think of passing judgment on you, whatever you
have done'--instead of that rather abstracted, faintly quizzical air,
his manner had become absorbed and gloomy. He seemed to jib away from
his friends. His manner at the "Pen and Ink" was wholly unsatisfying
to men who liked to talk. He was known to be writing a new book; they
suspected him of having "got into a hat"--this Victorian expression,
found by Mr. Balladyce in some chronicle of post-Thackerayan manners,
and revived by him in his incomparable way, as who should say, 'What
delicious expressions those good bourgeois had!' now flourished in
second childhood.

In truth, Hilary's difficulty with his new book was merely the one of
not being able to work at it at all. Even the housemaid who "did" his
study noticed that day after day she was confronted by Chapter XXIV., in
spite of her employer's staying in, as usual, every morning.

The change in his manner and face, which had grown strained and
harassed, had been noticed by Bianca, though she would have died sooner
than admit she had noticed anything about him. It was one of those
periods in the lives of households like an hour of a late summer's
day--brooding, electric, as yet quiescent, but charged with the currents
of coming storms.

Twice only in those weeks while Hughs was in prison did Hilary see the
girl. Once he met her when he was driving home; she blushed crimson and
her eyes lighted up. And one morning, too, he passed her on the bench
where they had sat together. She was staring straight before her, the
corners of her mouth drooping discontentedly. She did not see him.