“Why?”

Hilary was silent; then, facing the old man, he said: 

“I think she will be glad, for certain reasons, if I go away for a time.”

“When are you going?” asked Mr. Stone.

“As soon as I can.”

Mr. Stone’s eyes, wistfully bright, seemed trying to see through heavy fog.

“She came to me, I think,” he said; “I seem to recollect her crying.  You are good to her?”

“I have tried to be,” said Hilary.

Mr. Stone’s face was discoloured by a flush.  “You have no children,” he said painfully; “do you live together?”

Hilary shook his head.

“You are estranged?” said Mr. Stone.

Hilary bowed.  There was a long silence.  Mr. Stone’s eyes had travelled to the window.

“Without love there cannot be life,” he said at last; and fixing his wistful gaze on Hilary, asked:  “Does she love another?”

Again Hilary shook his head.

When Mr. Stone next spoke it was clearly to himself.

“I do not know why I am glad.  Do you love another?”

At this question Hilary’s eyebrows settled in a frown.  “What do you mean by love?” he said.

Mr. Stone did not reply; it was evident that he was reflecting deeply.  His lips began to move:  “By love I mean the forgetfulness of self.  Unions are frequent in which only the sexual instincts, or the remembrance of self, are roused—–­”

“That is true,” muttered Hilary.

Mr. Stone looked up; painful traces of confusion showed in his face.

“We were discussing something.”

“I was telling you,” said Hilary, “that it would be better for your daughter—­if I go away for a time.”

“Yes,” said Mr. Stone; “you are estranged.”

Hilary went back to his stand before the empty fireplace.

“There is one thing, sir,” he said, “on my conscience to say before I go, and I must leave it to you to decide.  The little girl who comes to you no longer lives where she used to live.”

“In that street....” said Mr. Stone.

Hilary went on quickly.  “She was obliged to leave because the husband of the woman with whom she used to lodge became infatuated with her.  He has been in prison, and comes out tomorrow.  If she continues to come here he will, of course, be able to find her.  I’m afraid he will pursue her again.  Have I made it clear to you?”

“No,” said Mr. Stone.

“The man,” resumed Hilary patiently, “is a poor, violent creature, who has been wounded in the head; he is not quite responsible.  He may do the girl an injury.”

“What injury?”

“He has stabbed his wife already.”

“I will speak to him,” said Mr. Stone.

Hilary smiled.  “I am afraid that words will hardly meet the case.  She ought to disappear.”

There was silence.

“My book!” said Mr. Stone.

It smote Hilary to see how white his face had become.  ‘It’s better,’ he thought, ’to bring his will-power into play; she will never come here, anyway, after I’m gone.’