He has even said, I
believe, that he was coming to see you."
"What about?"
"Me."
"And what is he going to say about you?"
"I don't know; some vulgar gossip--nothing true."
There was a silence, and in the darkness Hilary moistened his dry lips.
Bianca spoke: "May I ask how you knew of this?"
"Cecilia told me."
A curious noise, like a little strangled laugh, fell on Hilary's ears.
"I am very sorry," he muttered.
Presently Bianca said:
"It was good of you to tell me, considering that we go our own ways.
What made you?"
"I thought it right."
"And--of course, the man might have come to me!"
"That you need not have said."
"One does not always say what one ought."
"I have made the child a present of some clothes which she badly needed.
So far as I know, that's all I've done!"
"Of course!"
This wonderful "of course" acted on Hilary like a tonic. He said dryly:
"What do you wish me to do?"
"I?" No gust of the east wind, making the young leaves curl and shiver,
the gas jets flare and die down in their lamps, could so have nipped
the flower of amity. Through Hilary's mind flashed Stephen's almost
imploring words: "Oh, I wouldn't go to her! Women are so funny!"
He looked round. A blue gauze scarf was wrapped over his wife's dark
head. There, in her corner, as far away from him as she could get, she
was smiling.
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