And
now this particular law in turn was the dried rind, devoid of pips or
speculation; and the thinkers and dreamers and "artistic pigs" were
again rejecting it, and again themselves in exile.
This exiled faith, this honour amongst thieves, animated a little
conversation between Hilary and Bianca on the Tuesday following the
night when Mr. Stone sat on his bed to watch the rising moon.
Quietly Bianca said: "I think I shall be going away for a time."
"Wouldn't you rather that I went instead?" "You are wanted; I am not."
That ice-cold, ice-clear remark contained the pith of the whole matter;
and Hilary said:
"You are not going at once?"
"At the end of the week, I think."
Noting his eyes fixed on her, she added:
"Yes; we're neither of us looking quite our best."
"I am sorry."
"I know you are."
This had been all. It had been sufficient to bring Hilary once more face
to face with the situation.
Its constituent elements remained the same; relative values had much
changed. The temptations of St. Anthony were becoming more poignant
every hour. He had no "principles" to pit against them: he had merely
the inveterate distaste for hurting anybody, and a feeling that if he
yielded to his inclination he would be faced ultimately with a worse
situation than ever. It was not possible for him to look at the position
as Mr.
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