him a healthy, perhaps slightly chemical, ingredient, binding his component parts, causing them to work together safely, homogeneously.  In Hilary the effect seemed to have been otherwise; like some slow and subtle poison, this great quality, self-consciousness, had soaked his system through and through; permeated every cranny of his spirit, so that to think a definite thought, or do a definite deed, was obviously becoming difficult to him.  It took in the main the form of a sort of gentle desiccating humour.

“It’s a remarkable thing,” he had one day said to Stephen, “that by the process of assimilating little bits of chopped-up cattle one should be able to form the speculation of how remarkable a thing it is.”

Stephen had paused a second before answering—­they were lunching off roast beef in the Law Courts—­he had then said: 

“You’re surely not going to eschew the higher mammals, like our respected father-in-law?”

“On the contrary,” said Hilary, “to chew them; but it is remarkable, for all that; you missed my point.”

It was clear that a man who could see anything remarkable in such a thing was far gone, and Stephen had murmured: 

“My dear old chap, you’re getting too introspective.”

Hilary, having given his brother the special retiring smile, which seemed not only to say; “Don’t let me bore you,” but also, “Well, perhaps you had better wait outside,” the conversation closed.

That smile of Hilary’s, which jibbed away from things, though disconcerting and apt to put an end to intercourse, was natural enough.  A sensitive man, who had passed his life amongst cultivated people in the making of books, guarded from real wants by modest, not vulgar, affluence, had not reached the age of forty-two without finding his delicacy sharpened to the point of fastidiousness.  Even his dog could see the sort of man he was.  She knew that he would take no liberties, either with her ears or with her tail.  She knew that he would never hold her mouth ajar, and watch her teeth, as some men do; that when she was lying on her back he would gently rub her chest without giving her the feeling that she was doing wrong, as women will; and if she sat, as she was sitting now, with her eyes fixed on his study fire, he would never, she knew, even from afar, prevent her thinking of the nothing she loved to think on.

In his study, which smelt of a particular mild tobacco warranted to suit the nerves of any literary man, there was a bust of Socrates, which always seemed to have a strange attraction for its owner.  He had once described to a fellow-writer the impression produced on him by that plaster face, so capaciously ugly, as though comprehending the whole of human life, sharing all man’s gluttony and lust, his violence and rapacity, but sharing also his strivings toward love and reason and serenity.

“He’s telling us,” said Hilary, “to drink deep, to dive down and live with mermaids, to lie out on the hills under the sun, to sweat with helots, to know all things and all men.  No seat, he says, among the Wise, unless we’ve been through it all before we climb!  That’s how he strikes me—­not too cheering for people of our sort!”