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. It's a-concernin' of what this 'ere man was boastin' in his rage. 'Let them,' he says, 'as is responsive for the movin' of her look out,' he says; 'I ain't done with them!' That's conspiracy, I should think!” Smiling away this diagnosis of Hughs' words, Hilary shook the old man's withered hand, and closed the door. Sitting down again at his writing-table, he buried himself almost angrily in his work. But the queer, half-pleasurable, fevered feeling, which had been his, since the night he walked down Piccadilly, and met the image of the little model, was unfavourable to the austere process of his thoughts. CHAPTER XXV MR. STONE IN WAITING That same afternoon, while Mr. Stone was writing, he heard a voice saying: “Dad, stop writing just a minute, and talk to me.” Recognition came into his eyes. It was his younger daughter. “My dear,” he said, “are you unwell?” Keeping his hand, fragile and veined and chill, under her own warm grasp, Bianca answered: “Lonely.” Mr. Stone looked straight before him. “Loneliness,” he said, “is man's chief fault”; and seeing his pen lying on the desk, he tried to lift his hand. Bianca held it down. At that hot clasp something seemed to stir in Mr. Stone. His cheeks grew pink. “Kiss me, Dad.” Mr. Stone hesitated. Then his lips resolutely touched her eye. “It is wet,” he said. He seemed for a moment struggling to grasp the meaning of moisture in connection with the human eye. Soon his face again became serene. “The heart,” he said, “is a dark well; its depth unknown. I have lived eighty years. I am still drawing water.” “Draw a little for me, Dad.” This time Mr. Stone looked at his daughter anxiously, and suddenly spoke, as if afraid that if he waited he might forget. “You are unhappy!” Bianca put her face down to his tweed sleeve. “How nice your coat smells!” she murmured. “You are unhappy,” repeated Mr. Stone. Bianca dropped his hand, and moved away.