To the eyes of the frequenters of these Elysian fields, where so many men and shadows daily steal recreation, to the eyes of all drinking in those green gardens their honeyed draught of peace, this husband and wife appeared merely a distinguished-looking couple, animated by a leisured harmony.  For the time was not yet when men were one, and could tell by instinct what was passing in each other’s hearts.

In truth, there were not too many people in London who, in their situation, would have behaved with such seemliness—­not too many so civilised as they!

Estranged, and soon to part, they retained the manner of accord up to the last.  Not for them the matrimonial brawl, the solemn accusation and recrimination, the pathetic protestations of proprietary rights.  For them no sacred view that at all costs they must make each other miserable—­not even the belief that they had the right to do so.  No, there was no relief for their sore hearts.  They walked side by side, treating each other’s feelings with respect, as if there had been no terrible heart-turnings throughout the eighteen years in which they had first loved, then, through mysterious disharmony, drifted apart; as if there were now between them no question of this girl.

Presently Hilary said: 

“I’ve been into town and made my preparations; I’m starting tomorrow for the mountains.  There will be no necessity for you to leave your father.”

“Are you taking her?”

It was beautifully uttered, without a trace of bias or curiosity, with an unforced accent, neither indifferent nor too interested—­no one could have told whether it was meant for generosity or malice.  Hilary took it for the former.

“Thank you,” he said; “but that comedy is finished.”

Close to the edge of the Round Pond a swanlike cutter was putting out to sea; in the wake of this fair creature a tiny scooped-out bit of wood, with three feathers for masts, bobbed and trembled; and the two small ragged boys who owned that little galley were stretching bits of branch out towards her over the bright waters.

Bianca looked, without seeing, at this proof of man’s pride in his own property.  A thin gold chain hung round her neck; suddenly she thrust it into the bosom of her dress.  It had broken into two, between her fingers.

They reached home without another word.

At the door of Hilary’s study sat Miranda.  The little person answered his caress by a shiver of her sleek skin, then curled herself down again on the spot she had already warmed.

“Aren’t you coming in with me?” he said.

Miranda did not move.