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　No　tree　in　all　the　world　could　have　looked　more　fair　than　it　did　just　then　in　its　garb　of　gilded　bloom。　With　her　hand　up　to　her　bare　neck；　and　her　cheeks　indrawn　from　sucking　the　sweet；　the　little　model　fixed　her　eyes　on　the　tree。　　Her　expression　did　not　change；　she　showed　no　signs　of　admiration。　　Her　gaze　passed　on　to　the　back　windows　of　the　house　that　really　owned　the　pear…tree；　spying　out　whether　anyone　could　see　herhoping；　perhaps；　someone　would　see　her　while　she　was　feeling　so　nice　and　new。　　Then；　dropping　the　blind；　she　went　back　to　the　glass　and　began　to　pin　her　hair　up。　　When　this　was　done　she　stood　for　a　long　minute　looking　at　her　old　brown　skirt　and　blouse；　hesitating　to　defile　her　new…found　purity。　　At　last　she　put　them　on　and　drew　up　the　blind。　　The　sunlight　had　passed　off　the　pear…tree；　its　bloom　was　now　white；　and　almost　as　still　as　snow。　　The　little　model　put　another　sweet　into　her　mouth；　and　producing　from　her　pocket　an　ancient　leather　purse；　counted　out　her　money。　　Evidently　discovering　that　it　was　no　more　than　she　expected；　she　sighed；　and　rummaged　out　of　a　top　drawer　an　old　illustrated　magazine。

She　sat　down　on　the　bed；　and；　turning　the　leaves　rapidly　till　she　reached　a　certain　page；　rested　the　paper　in　her　lap。　　Her　eyes　were　fixed　on　a　photograph　in　the　left…hand　corner…one　of　those　effigies　of　writers　that　appear　occasionally　in　the　public　press。　　Under　it　were　printed　the　words：　〃Mr。　Hilary　Dallison。〃　　And　suddenly　she　heaved　a　sigh。

The　room　grew　darker；　the　wind；　getting　up　as　the　sun　went　down；　blew　a　few　dropped　petals　of　the　pear…tree　against　the　window…pane。




CHAPTER　XII

SHIPS　IN　SAIL

In　due　accord　with　the　old　butler's　comment　on　his　looks；　Hilary　had　felt　so　young　that；　instead　of　going　home；　he　mounted　an　omnibus；　and　went　down　to　his　clubthe　〃Pen　and　Ink；〃　so　called　because　the　man　who　founded　it　could　not　think　at　the　moment　of　any　other　words。　This　literary　person　had　left　the　club　soon　after　its　initiation；　having　conceived　for　it　a　sudden　dislike。　　It　had　indeed　a　certain　reputation　for　bad　cooking；　and　all　its　members　complained　bitterly　at　times　that　you　never　could　go　in　without　meeting　someone　you　knew。　It　stood　in　Dover　Street。　　Unlike　other　clubs；　it　was　mainly　used　to　talk　in；　and　had　special　arrangements　for　the　safety　of　umbrellas　and　such　books　as　had　not　yet　vanished　from　the　library；　not；　of　course；　owing　to　any　peculative　tendency　among　its　members；　but　because；　after　interchanging　their　ideas；　those　members　would　depart；　in　a　long　row；　each　grasping　some　material　object　in　his　hand。　　Its。　maroon…coloured　curtains；　too；　were　never　drawn；　because；　in　the　heat　of　their　discussions；　the　members　were　always　drawing　them。　　On　the　whole；　those　members　did　not　like　each　other　much；　wondering　a　little；　one　by　one；　why　the　others　wrote；　and　when　the　printed　reasons　were　detailed　to　them；　reading　them　with　irritation。　　If　really　compelled　to　hazard　an　opinion　about　each　other's　merits；　they　used　to　say　that；　no　doubt　〃So…and…so〃　was　〃very　good；〃　but　they　had　never　read　him！　　For　it　had　early　been　established　as　the　principle　underlying　membership　not　to　read　the　writings　of　another　man；　unless　you　could　be　certain　he　was　dead；　lest　you　might　have　to　tell　him　to　his　face　that　you　disliked　his　work。　　For　they　were　very　jealous　of　the　purity　of　their　literary　consciences。　　Exception　was　made；　however；　in　the　case　of　those　who　lived　by　written　criticism；　the　opinions　of　such　persons　being　read　by　all；　with　a　varying　smile；　and　a　certain　cerebral　excitement。　　Now　and　then；　however；　some　member；　violating　every　sense　of　decency；　would　take　a　violent　liking　for　another　member's　books。　　This　he　would　express　in　words；　to　the　discomfort　of　his　fellows；　who；　with　a　sudden　chilly　feeling　in　the　stomach；　would　wonder　why　it　was　not　their　books　that　he　was　praising。

Almost　every　year；　and　generally　in　March；　certain　aspirations　would　pass　into　the　club；　members　would　ask　each　other　why　there　was　no　Academy　of　British　Letters；　why　there　was　no　concerted　movement　to　limit　the　production　of　other　authors'　books；　why　there　was　no　prize　given　for　the　best　work　of　the　year。　　For　a　little　time　it　almost　seemed　as　if　their　individualism　were　in　danger；　but；　the　windows　having　been　opened　wider　than　usual　some　morning；　the　aspirations　would　pass　out；　and　all　would　feel　secretly　as　a　man　feels　when　he　has　swallowed　the　mosquito　that　has　been　worrying　him　all　night　relieved；　but　just　a　little　bit　embarrassed。　　Socially　sympathetic　in　their　dealings　with　each　otherthey　were　mostly　quite　nice　fellows　each　kept　a　little　fame…machine；　on　which　he　might　be　seen　sitting　every　morning　about　the　time　the　papers　and　his　correspondence　came；　wondering　if　his　fame　were　going　up。

Hilary　stayed　in　the　club　till　half…past　nine；　then；　avoiding　a　discussion　which　was　just　setting　in；　he　took　his　own　umbrella；　and　bent　his　steps　towards　home。

It　was　the　moment　of　suspense　in　Piccadilly；　the　tide　had　flowed　up　to　the　theatres；　and　had　not　yet　begun　to　ebb。　　The　tranquil　trees；　still　feathery；　draped　their　branches　along　the　farther　bank　of　that　broad　river；　resting　from　their　watch　over　the　tragi…comedies　played　on　its　surface　by　men；　their　small　companions。　　The　gentle　sighs　which　distilled　from　their　plume…like　boughs　seemed　utterances　of　the　softest　wisdom。　　Not　far　beyond　their　trunks　it　was　all　dark　velvet；　into　which　separate　shapes；　adventuring；　were　lost；　as　wild　birds　vanishing　in　space；　or　the　souls　of　men　received　into　their　Mother's　heart。

Hilary　walked；　hearing　no　sighs　of　wisdom；　noting　no　smooth　darkness；　wrapped　in　thought。　　The　mere　fact　of　having　given　pleasure　was　enough　to　produce　a　warm　sensation　in　a　man　so　naturally　kind。　　But；　as　with　all　self…conscious；　self…distrustful；　natures；　that　sensation　had　not　lasted。　　He　　was　left　with　a　feeling　of　emptiness　and　disillusionment；　as　of　having　given　himself　a　good　mark　without　reason。

While　walking；　he　was　a　target　for　the　eyes　of　many　women；　who　passed　him　rapidly；　like　ships　in　sail。　　The　special　fastidious　shyness　of　his　face　attracted　those　accustomed　to　another　kind　of　face。　　And　though　he　did　not　precisely　look　at　them；　they　in　turn　inspired　in　him　the　compassionate；　morbid　curiosity　which　persons　who　live　desperate　lives　necessarily　inspire　in　the　leisured；　speculative　mind。　　One　of　them　deliberately　approached　him　from　a　side…street。　Though　taller　and　fuller；　with　heightened　colour；　frizzy　hair；　and　a　hat　with　feathers；　she　was　the　image　of　the　little　modelthe　same　shape　of　face；　broad　cheek…bones；　mouth　a　little　open；　the　same　flower…coloured　eyes　and　short　black　lashes；　all　coarsened　and　accentuated　as　Art　coarsens　and　accentuates　the　lines　of　life。　Looking　boldly　into　Hilary's　startled　face；　she　laughed。　　Hilary　winced　and　walked　on　quickly。

He　reached　home　at　half…past　ten。　　The　lamp　was　burning　in　Mr。　Stone's　room；　and　his　window　was；　as　usual；　open；　that　which　was　not　usual；　however；　was　a　light　in　Hilary's　own　bedroom。　　He　went　gently　up。　　Through　the　door…ajar…he　saw；　to　his　surprise；　the　figure　of　his　wife。　　She　was　reclining　in　a　chair；　her　elbows　on　its　arms；　the　tips　of　her　fingers　pressed　together。　　Her　face；　with　its　dark　hair；　vivid　colouring；　and　sharp　lines；　was　touched　with　shadows；　her　head　turned　as　though　towards　somebody　beside　her；　her　neck　gleamed　white。　　So　motionless；　dimly　seenshe　was　like　a　woman　sitting　alongside　her　own　life；　scrutinising；　criticising；　watching　it　live；　taking　no　part　in　it。　　Hilary　wondered　whether　to　go　in　or　slip　away　from　his　strange　visitor。

〃Ah！　it's　you；〃　she　said。

Hilary　approached　her。　　For　all　her　mocking　of　her　own　charms；　this　wife　of　his　was　strangely　graceful。　　After　nineteen　years　in　which　to　learn　every　line　of　her　face　and　body；　every　secret　of　her　nature；　she　still　eluded　him；　that　elusiveness；　which　had　begun　by　being　such　a　charm；　had　got　on　his　nerves；　and　extinguished　the　flame　it　had　once　lighted。　　He　had　so　often　tried　to　see；　and　never　seen；　the　essence　of　her　soul。　　Why　was　she　made　like　this？　　Why　was　she　for　ever　mocking　herself；　himself；　and　every　other　thing？　　Why　was　she　so　hard　to　her　own　life；　so　bitter　a　foe　to　her　own　happiness？　　Leonardo　da　Vinci　might　have　painted　her；　less　sensual　and　cruel　than　his　women；　more　restless　and　disharmonic；　but　physically；　spiritually　enticing；　and；　by　her　refusals　to　surrender　either　to　her　spirit　or　her　senses；　baffling　her　own　enticements。

〃I　don't　know　why　I　came；〃　she　said。

Hilary　found　no　better　answer　than：　〃I　am　sorry　I　was　out　to　dinner。〃

〃Has　the　wind　gone　round？　　My　room　is　cold。〃

〃Yes；　north…east。　　Stay　here。〃

Her　hand　touched　his；　that　warm　and　restless　clasp　was　agitating。

〃It's　good　of　you　to　ask　me；　but　we'd　better　not　begin　what　we　can't　keep　up。〃

〃Stay　here；〃　said　Hilary　again；　kneeling　down　beside　her　chair。

And　suddenly　he　began　to　kiss　her　face　and　neck。　　He　felt　her　answering　kisses；　for　a　moment　they　were　clasped　together　in　a　fierce　embrace。　　Then；　as　though　by　mutual　consent；　their　arms　relaxed；　their　eyes　grew　furtive；　like　the　eyes　of　children　who　have　egged　each　other　on　to　steal；　and　on　their　lips　appeared　the　faintest　of　faint　smiles。　　It　was　as　though　thos