situation which Hilary, seated beneath the bust of Socrates, turned
over and over in his mind. Long and painful reflection brought him back
continually to the thought that he himself, and not Bianca, had better
go away. He was extremely bitter and contemptuous towards himself that
he had not done so long ago. He made use of the names Martin had given
him. "Hamlet," "Amateur," "Invertebrate." They gave him, unfortunately,
little comfort.

In the afternoon he received a visit. Mr. Stone came in with his osier
fruit-bag in his hand. He remained standing, and spoke at once.

"Is my daughter happy?"

At this unexpected question Hilary walked over to the fireplace.

"No," he said at last; "I am afraid she is not."

"Why?"

Hilary was silent; then, facing the old man, he said:

"I think she will be glad, for certain reasons, if I go away for a
time."

"When are you going?" asked Mr. Stone.

"As soon as I can."

Mr. Stone's eyes, wistfully bright, seemed trying to see through heavy
fog.