The woman goes on irritatin'
of him, but he must expect of that, she bein' his wife. But what a
misfortune! He'll be back again in no time, and what'll happen then? It
won't improve him, shut up in one of them low prisons!" Then, raising
his old face to Hilary: "Oh dear! It's like awalkin' on a black night,
when ye can't see your 'and before yer."
Hilary was unable to find a suitable answer to this simile.
The impression made on him by the old butler's recital was queerly
twofold; his more fastidious side felt distinct relief that he had
severed connection with an episode capable of developments so sordid
and conspicuous. But all the side of him--and Hilary was a complicated
product--which felt compassion for the helpless, his suppressed
chivalry, in fact, had also received its fillip. The old butler's
references to the girl showed clearly how the hands of all men and women
were against her. She was that pariah, a young girl without property or
friends, spiritually soft, physically alluring.
To recompense "Westminister" for the loss of his day's work, to make a
dubious statement that nights were never so black as they appeared to
be, was all that he could venture to do. Creed hesitated in the doorway.
"Oh dear," he said, "there's a-one thing that the woman was a-saying
that I've forgot to tell you.
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