To a man like Hilary-for whom running after women had been about the
last occupation in the world, who had, in fact, always fought shy of
them and imagined that they would always fight shy of him--there was an
unusual enticement and dismay in the feeling that a young girl really
was pursuing him. It was at once too good, too unlikely, and too
embarrassing to be true. His sudden feeling for her was the painful
sensation of one who sees a ripe nectarine hanging within reach. He
dreamed continually of stretching out his hand, and so he did not dare,
or thought he did not dare, to pass that way. All this did not favour
the tenor of a studious, introspective life; it also brought a sense of
unreality which made him avoid his best friends. This, partly, was why
Stephen came to see him one Sunday, his other reason for the visit being
the calculation that Hughs would be released on the following Wednesday.

'This girl,' he thought, 'is going to the house still, and Hilary will
let things drift till he can't stop them, and there'll be a real mess.'

The fact of the man's having been in prison gave a sinister turn to
an affair regarded hitherto as merely sordid by Stephen's orderly and
careful mind.

Crossing the garden, he heard Mr. Stone's voice issuing through the open
window.

'Can't the old crank stop even on Sundays?' he thought.

He found Hilary in his study, reading a book on the civilisation of the
Maccabees, in preparation for a review. He gave Stephen but a dubious
welcome.