Bianca hastened away from the sight of such utter peace.  She wandered into a grove of trees which had almost eluded the notice of the crowd.  They were limes, guarding still within them their honey bloom.  Their branches of light, broad leaves, near heart-shaped, were spread out like wide skirts.  The tallest of these trees, a beautiful, gay creature, stood tremulous, like a mistress waiting for her tardy lover.  What joy she seemed to promise, what delicate enticement, with every veined quivering leaf!  And suddenly the sun caught hold of her, raised her up to him, kissed her all over; she gave forth a sigh of happiness, as though her very spirit had travelled through her lips up to her lover’s heart.

A woman in a lilac frock came stealing through the trees towards Bianca, and sitting down not far off, kept looking quickly round under her sunshade.

Presently Bianca saw what she was looking for.  A young man in black coat and shining hat came swiftly up and touched her shoulder.  Half hidden by the foliage they sat, leaning forward, prodding gently at the ground with stick and parasol; the stealthy murmur of their talk, so soft and intimate that no word was audible, stole across the grass; and secretly he touched her hand and arm.  They were not of the holiday crowd, and had evidently chosen out this vulgar afternoon for a stolen meeting.

Bianca rose and hurried on amongst the trees.  She left the Park.  In the streets many couples, not so careful to conceal their intimacy, were parading arm-in-arm.  The sight of them did not sting her like the sight of those lovers in the Park; they were not of her own order.  But presently she saw a little boy and girl asleep on the doorstep of a mansion, with their cheeks pressed close together and their arms round each other, and again she hurried on.  In the course of that long wandering she passed the building which “Westminister” was so anxious to avoid.  In its gateway an old couple were just about to separate, one to the men’s, the other to the women’s quarters.  Their toothless mouths were close together.  “Well, goodnight, Mother!” “Good-night, Father, good-night-take care o’ yourself!”

Once more Bianca hurried on.

It was past nine when she turned into the Old Square, and rang the bell of her sister’s house with the sheer physical desire to rest—­somewhere that was not her home.

At one end of the long, low drawing-room Stephen, in evening dress, was reading aloud from a review.  Cecilia was looking dubiously at his sock, where she seemed to see a tiny speck of white that might be Stephen.  In the window at the far end Thyme and Martin were exchanging speeches at short intervals; they made no move at Bianca’s entrance; and their faces said:  “We have no use for that handshaking nonsense!”

Receiving Cecilia’s little, warm, doubting kiss and Stephen’s polite, dry handshake, Bianca motioned to him not to stop reading.  He resumed.  Cecilia, too, resumed her scrutiny of Stephen’s sock.