"
Hilary withdrew into himself.
"You can hardly expect me," he said, "to go into that with her."
His reply made Cecilia feel ridiculous.
"Well," she said in a hard little voice, "if this is what comes of
helping the poor, I don't see the use of it."
The outburst evoked no reply from Hilary; she felt more tremulous than
ever. The whole thing was so confused, so unnatural. What with the dark,
malignant Hughs and that haunting vision of Bianca, the matter seemed
almost Italian. That a man of Hughs' class might be affected by the
passion of love had somehow never come into her head. She thought of
the back streets she had looked out on from her bedroom window. Could
anything like passion spring up in those dismal alleys? The people
who lived there, poor downtrodden things, had enough to do to keep
themselves alive. She knew all about them; they were in the air; their
condition was deplorable! Could a person whose condition was deplorable
find time or strength for any sort of lurid exhibition such as this? It
was incredible.
She became aware that Hilary was speaking.
"I daresay the man is dangerous!"
Hearing her fears confirmed, and in accordance with the secret vein of
hardness which kept her living, amid all her sympathies and hesitations,
Cecilia felt suddenly that she had gone as far as it was in her to go.
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