arefully extended a copy of the last edition。
〃Good…evenin'； sir！ Quite seasonable to…day for the time of year！ Ho； yes！ 'Westminister！'〃
His eyes followed Hilary's retreat。 He thought：
〃Oh dear！ He's a…given me an 'arf…a…crown。 He does look wellI like to see 'im look as well as thatquite young！ Oh dear！〃
The sun…that smoky； faring ball； which in its time had seen so many last editions of the Westminster Gazettewas dropping down to pass the night in Shepherd's Bush。 It made the old butler's eyelids blink when he turned to see if the coin really was a half…crown； or too good to be true。
And all the spires and house…roofs； and the spaces up above and underneath them； glittered and swam； and men and horses looked as if they had been powdered with golden dust。
CHAPTER XI
PEAR BLOSSOM
Weighed down by her three parcels； the little model pursued her way to Hound Street。 At the door of No。 1 the son of the lame woman； a tall weedy youth with a white face； was resting his legs alternately； and smoking a cigarette。 Closing one eye； he addressed her thus：
〃'Allo； miss！ Kerry your parcels for you？〃
The little model gave him a look。 'Mind your own business！' it said； but there was that in the flicker of her eyelashes which more than nullified this snub。
Entering her room； she deposited the parcels on her bed； and untied the strings with quick； pink fingers。 When she had freed the garments from wrappings and spread them out； she knelt down； and began to touch them； putting her nose down once or twice to sniff the linen and feel its texture。 There were little frills attached here and there； and to these she paid particular attention； ruffling their edges with the palms of her hands； while the holy look came back to her face。 Rising at length； she locked the door； drew down the blind； undressed from head to foot； and put on the new garments。 Letting her hair down； she turned herself luxuriously round and round before the too…small looking…glass。 There was utter satisfaction in each gesture of that whole operation； as if her spirit； long starved； were having a good meal。 In this rapt contemplation of herself； all childish vanity and expectancy； and all that wonderful quality found in simple unspiritual natures of delighting in the present moment； were perfectly displayed。 So； motionless； with her hair loose on her neck； she was like one of those half…hours of Spring that have lost their restlessness and are content just to be。
Presently； however； as though suddenly remembering that her happiness was not utterly complete； she went to a drawer； took out a packet of pear…drops； and put one in her mouth。
The sun； near to setting； had found its way through a hole in the blind； and touched her neck。 She turned as though she had received a kiss； and； raising a corner of the blind； peered out。 The pear…tree； which； to the annoyance of its proprietor； was placed so close to the back court of this low…class house as almost to seem to belong to it； was bathed in slanting sunlight。 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