To a man like Hilary-for whom running after women had been about the last occupation in the world, who had, in fact, always fought shy of them and imagined that they would always fight shy of him--there was an unusual enticement and dismay in the feeling that a young girl really was pursuing him. It was at once too good, too unlikely, and too embarrassing to be true. His sudden feeling for her was the painful sensation of one who sees a ripe nectarine hanging within reach. He dreamed continually of stretching out his hand, and so he did not dare, or thought he did not dare, to pass that way. All this did not favour the tenor of a studious, introspective life; it also brought a sense of unreality which made him avoid his best friends. This, partly, was why Stephen came to see him one Sunday, his other reason for the visit being the calculation that Hughs would be released on the following Wednesday. 'This girl,' he thought, 'is going to the house still, and Hilary will let things drift till he can't stop them, and there'll be a real mess.' The fact of the man's having been in prison gave a sinister turn to an affair regarded hitherto as merely sordid by Stephen's orderly and careful mind. Crossing the garden, he heard Mr. Stone's voice issuing through the open window. 'Can't the old crank stop even on Sundays?' he thought. He found Hilary in his study, reading a book on the civilisation of the Maccabees, in preparation for a review. He gave Stephen but a dubious welcome. Stephen broke ground gently. “We haven't seen you for an age. I hear our old friend at it. Is he working double tides to finish his magnum opus? I thought he observed the day of rest.” “He does as a rule,” said Hilary. “Well, he's got the girl there now dictating.” Hilary winced. Stephen continued with greater circumspection “You couldn't get the old boy to finish by Wednesday, I suppose? He must be quite near the end by now.” The notion of Mr. Stone's finishing his book by Wednesday procured a pale smile from Hilary. “Could you get your Law Courts,” he said, “to settle up the affairs of mankind for good and all by Wednesday?” “By Jove! Is it as bad as that? I thought, at any rate, he must be meaning to finish some day.” “When men are brothers,” said Hilary, “he will finish.” Stephen whistled. “Look here, dear boy!” he said, “that ruffian comes out on Wednesday. The whole thing will begin over again.” Hilary rose and paced the room. “I refuse,” he said, “to consider Hughs a ruffian. What do we know about him, or any of them?” “Precisely! What do we know of this girl?” “I am not going to discuss that,” Hilary said shortly. For a moment the faces of the two brothers wore a hard, hostile look, as though the deep difference between their characters had at last got the better of their loyalty. They both seemed to recognise this, for they turned their heads away.