“You mistrust my powers of action?”

“No, no,” said Stephen.  “I don’t want you to act at all.”

Hilary laughed.  Hearing that rather bitter laugh, Stephen felt a little ache about his heart.

“Come, old boy,” he said, “we can trust each other, anyway.”

Hilary gave his brother’s arm a squeeze.

Moved by that pressure, Stephen spoke: 

“I hate you to be worried over such a rotten business.”

The whizz of a motor-car rapidly approaching them became a sort of roar, and out of it a voice shouted:  “How are you?” A hand was seen to rise in salute.  It was Mr. Purcey driving his A.i.  Damyer back to Wimbledon.  Before him in the sunlight a little shadow fled; behind him the reek of petrol seemed to darken the road.

“There’s a symbol for you,” muttered Hilary.

“How do you mean?” said Stephen dryly.  The word “symbol” was distasteful to him.

“The machine in the middle moving on its business; shadows like you and me skipping in front; oil and used-up stuff dropping behind.  Society-body, beak, and bones.”

Stephen took time to answer.  “That’s rather far-fetched,” he said.  “You mean these Hughs and people are the droppings?”

“Quite so,” was Hilary’s sardonic answer.  “There’s the body of that fellow and his car between our sort and them—­and no getting over it, Stevie.”

“Well, who wants to?  If you’re thinking of our old friend’s Fraternity, I’m not taking any.”  And Stephen suddenly added:  “Look here, I believe this affair is all ‘a plant.’”

“You see that Powder Magazine?” said Hilary.  “Well, this business that you call a ‘plant’ is more like that.  I don’t want to alarm you, but I think you as well as our young friend Martin, are inclined to underrate the emotional capacity of human nature.”

Disquietude broke up the customary mask on Stephen’s face:  “I don’t understand,” he stammered.

“Well, we’re none of us machines, not even amateurs like me—­not even under-dogs like Hughs.  I fancy you may find a certain warmth, not to say violence, about this business.  I tell you frankly that I don’t live in married celibacy quite with impunity.  I can’t answer for anything, in fact.  You had better stand clear, Stephen—­that’s all.”

Stephen marked his thin hands quivering, and this alarmed him as nothing else had done.

They walked on beside the water.  Stephen spoke quietly, looking at the ground.  “How can I stand clear, old man, if you are going to get into a mess?  That’s impossible.”

He saw at once that this shot, which indeed was from his heart, had gone right home to Hilary’s.  He sought within him how to deepen the impression.

“You mean a lot to us,” he said.  “Cis and Thyme would feel it awfully if you and B.—–­” He stopped.

Hilary was looking at him; that faintly smiling glance, searching him through and through, suddenly made Stephen feel inferior.  He had been detected trying to extract capital from the effect of his little piece of brotherly love.  He was irritated at his brother’s insight.