“But, Hilary,” she said at last, “are you satisfied about the girl--I mean, are you satisfied that she really is worth helping?” “I don't understand.” “I mean,” murmured Cecilia, “that we don't know anything about her past.” And, seeing from the movement of his eyebrows that she was touching on what had evidently been a doubt with him, she went on with great courage: “Where are her friends and relations? I mean, she may have had a--adventures.” Hilary withdrew into himself. “You can hardly expect me,” he said, “to go into that with her.” His reply made Cecilia feel ridiculous. “Well,” she said in a hard little voice, “if this is what comes of helping the poor, I don't see the use of it.” The outburst evoked no reply from Hilary; she felt more tremulous than ever. The whole thing was so confused, so unnatural. What with the dark, malignant Hughs and that haunting vision of Bianca, the matter seemed almost Italian. That a man of Hughs' class might be affected by the passion of love had somehow never come into her head. She thought of the back streets she had looked out on from her bedroom window. Could anything like passion spring up in those dismal alleys? The people who lived there, poor downtrodden things, had enough to do to keep themselves alive. She knew all about them; they were in the air; their condition was deplorable! Could a person whose condition was deplorable find time or strength for any sort of lurid exhibition such as this? It was incredible. She became aware that Hilary was speaking. “I daresay the man is dangerous!” Hearing her fears confirmed, and in accordance with the secret vein of hardness which kept her living, amid all her sympathies and hesitations, Cecilia felt suddenly that she had gone as far as it was in her to go. “I shall have no more to do with them,” she said; “I've tried my best for Mrs. Hughs. I know quite as good a needlewoman, who'll be only too glad to come instead. Any other girl will do as well to copy father's book. If you take my advice, Hilary, you'll give up trying to help them too.” Hilary's smile puzzled and annoyed her. If she had known, this was the smile that stood between him and her sister. “You may be right,” he said, and shrugged his shoulders: “Very well,” said Cecilia, “I've done all I can. I must go now. Good-bye.” During her progress to the door she gave one look behind. Hilary was standing by the bust of Socrates. Her heart smote her to leave him thus embarrassed. But again the vision of Bianca--fugitive in her own house, and with something tragic in her mocking immobility--came to her, and she hastened away. A voice said: “How are you, Mrs. Dallison? Your sister at home?” Cecilia saw before her Mr. Purcey, rising and falling a little with the oscillation of his A.i. Damyer. A sense as of having just left a house visited by sickness or misfortune made Cecilia murmur: “I'm afraid she's not.”