He's negative!"
And having thus in a single word, somewhat to his own astonishment,
described his brother, he held out his hand.
The hand which Bianca placed in it was feverishly hot. Stephen felt
suddenly compunctious.
"I'm awfully sorry," he stammered, "about the whole thing. I'm awfully
sorry for you---"
Bianca drew back her hand.
With a little shrug Stephen turned away.
'What are you to do with women like that?' was his thought, and saying
dryly, "Good-night, B.," he went.
For some time Bianca sat in Hilary's chair. Then, by the faint glimmer
coming through the half-open door, she began to wander round the room,
touching the walls, the books, the prints, all the familiar things among
which he had lived so many years....
In that dim continual journey she was like a disharmonic spirit
traversing the air above where its body lies.
The door creaked behind her. A voice said sharply:
"What are you doing in this house?"
Mr. Stone was standing beside the bust of Socrates. Bianca went up to
him.
"Father!"
Mr. Stone stared. "It is you! I thought it was a thief! Where is
Hilary?"
"Gone away."
"Alone?"
Bianca bowed her head. "It is very late, Dad," she whispered.
Mr. Stone's hand moved as though he would have stroked her.
"The human heart," he murmured, "is the tomb of many feelings.
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