“By the way, you know old Mr. Eliot’s daughter, don’t you?  Tring told me she went to the dancing classes.”

“Yes....  Why?” Ishmael asked in sudden alarm.

If it had all come out—­to have a girl mixed up in this story of his—­the ignominy of it!  The next moment with his relief mingled a contrition for his selfish impulse when Boase replied:  “She’s not well, apparently.  Her father made Carron have a look at her; he’s no faith in Harvey.  Seems she’s been doing too much for her strength—­walking too far.  She appears to think nothing of ten to fifteen miles.”

“There’s nothing wrong, really wrong, is there?”

“Oh, no, only they think change of air will be good for her and more rest.  She’s to go on a long visit to some relations in France.  I don’t know what she’ll think of the change, a girl like that.  She’s a splendid creature.”

“Have you met her?” asked Ishmael in surprise.

“Why, yes.  Her father seemed to think she was a little hysterical and asked me to see if she would talk to me....”

“More talking ...” thought Ishmael.

“I don’t think her at all hysterical.  It seemed to me more physical.  In fact, I suggested Mr. Carron.  But I think there’s nothing like a thorough change.  Her father’ll miss her, I fear, though.”

Ishmael had a sly chuckle as he thought of others who would do likewise, and, catching a twinkle in the Parson’s eye, it occurred to him for the first time that day that perhaps all the subtlety of the race was not confined to those of the age of himself and Killigrew.  He grew a little hot; then the Parson began to speak on another theme, and he thought no more of Hilaria.  He was to think of her less and less as the months during which she never came back to St. Renny went by, and he did not guess how he was to hear of her again.

“About your confirmation,” the Parson was saying.  “This affair will make no difference.  There is no real reason why it should be put off.  Dr. Tring quite agrees with me.  You are in the same mind about it, eh?”

Ishmael, who was feeling more and more as though the past week had been a grisly burden that was slipping off him like a bad dream, acquiesced in a rush of eager thankfulness.  The complications of life were beginning to unfold in front of him, and both by training and heredity he turned to the things that bore relation elsewhere but in this life for a solution.

“I want to be decent ...” was all he said gruffly, but with a something so youthful in manner and sentiment that Boase had a yearning over him as in the days when he had been a little boy.