Hilary rose and paced the room. "I refuse," he said, "to consider Hughs
a ruffian. What do we know about him, or any of them?"

"Precisely! What do we know of this girl?"

"I am not going to discuss that," Hilary said shortly.

For a moment the faces of the two brothers wore a hard, hostile look, as
though the deep difference between their characters had at last got the
better of their loyalty. They both seemed to recognise this, for they
turned their heads away.

"I just wanted to remind you," Stephen said, "though you know your own
business best, of course." And at Hilary's nod he thought:

'That's just exactly what he doesn't!'

He soon left, conscious of an unwonted awkwardness in his brother's
presence. Hilary watched him out through the wicket gate, then sat down
on the solitary garden bench.

Stephen's visit had merely awakened perverse desires in him. Strong
sunlight was falling on that little London garden, disclosing its native
shadowiness; streaks, and smudges such as Life smears over the faces of
those who live too consciously. Hilary, beneath the acacia-tree not
yet in bloom, marked an early butterfly flitting over the geraniums
blossoming round an old sundial. Blackbirds were holding evensong; the
late perfume of the lilac came stealing forth into air faintly smeeched
with chimney smoke. There was brightness, but no glory, in that