"
Hilary bowed. The cab, bearing them fast home, turned into the last
short cut. This narrow street was full of men and women circling round
barrows and lighted booths. The sound of coarse talk and laughter
floated out into air thick with the reek of paraffin and the scent of
frying fish. In every couple of those men and women Hilary seemed to
see the Hughs, that other married couple, going home to wedded happiness
above the little model's head. The cab turned out of the gay alley.
"Enough, please, of these people!"
That same night, past one o'clock, he was roused from sleep by hearing
bolts drawn back. He got up, hastened to the window, and looked out.
At first he could distinguish nothing. The moonless night; like a dark
bird, had nested in the garden; the sighing of the lilac bushes was the
only sound. Then, dimly, just below him, on the steps of the front door,
he saw a figure standing.
"Who is that?" he called.
The figure did not move.
"Who are you?" said Hilary again.
The figure raised its face, and by the gleam of his white beard Hilary
knew that it was Mr. Stone.
"What is it, sir?" he said. "Can I do anything?"
"No," answered Mr. Stone. "I am listening to the wind. It has visited
everyone to-night." And lifting his hand, he pointed out into the
darkness.
CHAPTER XXI
A DAY OF REST
Cecilia's house in the Old Square was steeped from roof to basement in
the peculiar atmosphere brought by Sunday to houses whose inmates have
no need of religion or of rest.
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