Hilary, he “went on against the gentry.”  He was, in fact, a ragged screen, a broken vessel, that let light through its holes.  A glass or two of beer, the fumes of which his wounded head no longer dominated, and he at once became “dreadful foreign.”  Unfortunately, it was his custom, on finishing his work, to call at the “Green Glory.”  On this particular afternoon the glass had become three, and in sallying forth he had felt a confused sense of duty urging him to visit the house where this girl for whom he had conceived his strange infatuation “carried on her games.”  The “no-tale-bearing” tradition of a soldier fought hard with this sense of duty; his feelings were mixed when he rang the bell and asked for Mrs. Dallison.  Habit, however, masked his face, and he stood before her at “attention,” his black eyes lowered, clutching his peaked cap.

Blanca noted curiously the scar on the left side of his cropped black head.

Whatever Hughs had to say was not said easily.

“I’ve come,” he began at last in a dogged voice, “to let you know.  I never wanted to come into this house.  I never wanted to see no one.”

Blanca could see his lips and eyelids quivering in a way strangely out of keeping with his general stolidity.

“My wife has told you tales of me, I suppose.  She’s told you I knock her about, I daresay.  I don’t care what she tells you or any o’ the people that she works for.  But this I’ll say:  I never touched her but she touched me first.  Look here! that’s marks of hers!” and, drawing up his sleeve he showed a scratch on his sinewy tattooed forearm.  “I’ve not come here about her; that’s no business of anyone’s.”

Bianca turned towards her pictures.  “Well?” she said, “but what have you come about, please?  You see I’m busy.”

Hughs’ face changed.  Its stolidity vanished, the eyes became as quick, passionate, and leaping as a dark torrent.  He was more violently alive than she had ever seen a man.  Had it been a woman she would have felt—­as Cecilia had felt with Mrs. Hughs—­the indecency, the impudence of this exhibition; but from that male violence the feminine in her derived a certain satisfaction.  So in Spring, when all seems lowering and grey, the hedges and trees suddenly flare out against the purple clouds, their twigs all in flame.  The next moment that white glare is gone, the clouds are no longer purple, fiery light no longer quivers and leaps along the hedgerows.  The passion in Hughs’ face was gone as soon.  Bianca felt a sense of disappointment, as though she could have wished her life held a little more of that.  He stole a glance at her out of his dark eyes, which, when narrowed, had a velvety look, like the body of a wild bee, then jerked his thumb at the picture of the little model.

“It’s about her I come to speak.”

Blanca faced him frigidly.

“I have not the slightest wish to hear.”