“Well, we're none of us machines, not even amateurs like me--not even under-dogs like Hughs. I fancy you may find a certain warmth, not to say violence, about this business. I tell you frankly that I don't live in married celibacy quite with impunity. I can't answer for anything, in fact. You had better stand clear, Stephen--that's all.” Stephen marked his thin hands quivering, and this alarmed him as nothing else had done. They walked on beside the water. Stephen spoke quietly, looking at the ground. “How can I stand clear, old man, if you are going to get into a mess? That's impossible.” He saw at once that this shot, which indeed was from his heart, had gone right home to Hilary's. He sought within him how to deepen the impression. “You mean a lot to us,” he said. “Cis and Thyme would feel it awfully if you and B.---” He stopped. Hilary was looking at him; that faintly smiling glance, searching him through and through, suddenly made Stephen feel inferior. He had been detected trying to extract capital from the effect of his little piece of brotherly love. He was irritated at his brother's insight. “I have no right to give advice, I suppose,” he said; “but in my opinion you should drop it--drop it dead. The girl is not worth your looking after. Turn her over to that Society--Mrs. Tallents Smallpeace's thing whatever it's called.” At a sound as of mirth Stephen, who was not accustomed to hear his brother laugh, looked round. “Martin,” said Hilary, “also wants the case to be treated on strictly hygienic grounds.” Nettled by this, Stephen answered: “Don't confound me with our young Sanitist, please; I simply think there are probably a hundred things you don't know about the girl which ought to be cleared up.” “And then?” “Then,” said Stephen, “they could--er--deal with her accordingly.” Hilary shrank so palpably at this remark that he added rather hastily: “You call that cold-blooded, I suppose; but I think, you know, old chap, that you're too sensitive.” Hilary stopped rather abruptly. “If you don't mind, Stevie,” he said, “we'll part here. I want to think it over.” So saying, he turned back, and sat down on a seat that faced the sun. CHAPTER XVIII THE PERFECT DOG Hilary sat long in the sun, watching the pale bright waters and many well-bred ducks circling about the shrubs, searching with their round, bright eyes for worms. Between the bench where he was sitting and the spiked iron railings people passed continually--men, women, children of all kinds. Every now and then a duck would stop and cast her knowing glance at these creatures, as though comparing the condition of their forms and plumage with her own. 'If I had had the breeding of you,' she seemed to say, 'I could have made a better fist of it than that. A worse-looking lot of ducks, take you all round. I never wish to see!' And with a quick but heavy movement of her shoulders, she would turn away and join her fellows.