Above this crowd of his fellow-creatures, Stephen drove, and the same Spring wind which had made the elm-trees talk, whispered to him, and tried to tell him of the million flowers it had fertilised, the million leaves uncurled, the million ripples it had awakened on the sea, of the million flying shadows flung by it across the Downs, and how into men’s hearts its scent had driven a million longings and sweet pains.

It was but moderately successful, for Stephen, like all men of culture and neat habits, took Nature only at those moments when he had gone out to take her, and of her wild heart he had a secret fear.

On his own doorstep he encountered Hilary coming out.

“I ran across Thyme and Martin in the Gardens,” the latter said.  “Thyme brought me back to lunch, and here I’ve been ever since.”

“Did she bring our young Sanitist in too?” asked Stephen dubiously.

“No,” said Hilary.

“Good!  That young man gets on my nerves.”  Taking his elder brother by the arm, he added:  “Will you come in again, old boy, or shall we go for a stroll?”

“A stroll,” said Hilary.

Though different enough, perhaps because they were so different, these two brothers had the real affection for each other which depends on something deeper and more elementary than a similarity of sentiments, and is permanent because unconnected with the reasoning powers.

It depended on the countless times they had kissed and wrestled as tiny boys, slept in small beds alongside, refused-to “tell” about each other, and even now and then taken up the burden of each other’s peccadilloes.  They might get irritated or tired of being in each other’s company, but it would have been impossible for either to have been disloyal to the other in any circumstances, because of that traditional loyalty which went back to their cribs.

Preceded by Miranda, they walked along the flower walk towards the Park, talking of indifferent things, though in his heart each knew well enough what was in the other’s.

Stephen broke through the hedge.

“Cis has been telling me,” he said, “that this man Hughs is making trouble of some sort.”

Hilary nodded.

Stephen glanced a little anxiously at his brother’s face; it struck him as looking different, neither so gentle nor so impersonal as usual.

“He’s a ruffian, isn’t he?”

“I can’t tell you,” Hilary answered.  “Probably not.”

“He must be, old chap,” murmured Stephen.  Then, with a friendly pressure of his brother’s arm, he added:  “Look here, old boy, can I be of any use?”

“In what?” asked Hilary.

Stephen took a hasty mental view of his position; he had been in danger of letting Hilary see that he suspected him.  Frowning slightly, and with some colour in his clean-shaven face, he said: 

“Of course, there’s nothing in it.”

“In what?” said Hilary again.