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 other—­they 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 model—­the 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.