He stood between the rows of houses and tried to realise that one of them sheltered Hilaria.  He stood quite still, beset by the same thoughts as on the first evening he had been told of her.  He looked up at the houses and wondered which it was; it seemed odd that the bricks and stone which hid so much of sadness should not declare it in some way unmistakable to him.  Odd that he could no more tell at what elevation, whether just above him or nearer the roof, she lay, as odd that, wherever it might be, she was equally unknowing that someone was thinking of her with such intensity so near.  He walked along, looking for the number Carminow had mentioned, found he had passed it, and turned back to see it was the house one door further down than that at which he had first stopped.  He looked at the door as though it could fly open and bid him enter; he pictured with a vividness he could not suppress her entrance there, carried, her head lolling on her breast.  Several times he walked up and down, wondering if she would care to see him, trying to remember if she had ever shown any predilection for him which could make him think she would.  Then he turned away and went on, the thought of her and the pity of her going with him.  He was not surprised when at supper Carminow began to speak of her; it seemed as though it would not be possible to sit so near to himself and not feel the trend of his thoughts.

“I saw Hilaria yesterday,” said Carminow, “and I asked her if she wanted to see you two.  I thought she might, but she waited a minute and then let me know most unmistakably that she would rather not.  She can only speak very queerly now—­most painful business—­and make a few gestures, but there was no mistaking her.  I expect it would have been too much for her anyway.”

Both his listeners felt a half-guilty relief, and that night when alone in his room Ishmael, aided by that glimpse of the exterior of her surroundings and by Carminow’s words, was assailed again by the thought of her, but not as keenly as before.  Shocked senses had been responsible for that first keenness, and imagination, however aided, could not sting to the same depth.  He thought as he fell asleep of Blanche and Cloom.  Life had ugly, unthought-of things in it, but, thinking of her steady radiance, he could not believe that any fate would dare to dim its lustre.

Blanche sat long at the window of her bedroom that evening, her ashen fair hair about her shoulders and her brush idle in her hand.  As it was Sunday and she had no engagement, she was going to bed early, so early that it was still sunset-light.