Stephen, who had jumped up, asked:  “Where is she?”

“Gone to her room.”

“Then perhaps,” said Stephen, regaining at once his dry composure, “you will give us some explanation of this folly.”

“She’s no use to us at present.”

“Indeed!”

“None.”

“Then,” said Stephen, “kindly understand that we have no use for you in future, or any of your sort.”

Martin looked round the table, resting his eyes on each in turn.

“You’re right,” he said.  “Good-bye!”

Hilary and Cecilia had risen, too.  There was silence.  Stephen crossed to the door.

“You seem to me,” he said suddenly, in his driest voice, “with your new manners and ideas, quite a pernicious youth.”

Cecilia stretched her hands out towards Martin, and there was a faint tinkling as of chains.

“You must know, dear,” she said, “how anxious we’ve all been.  Of course, your uncle doesn’t mean that.”

The same scornful tenderness with which he was wont to look at Thyme passed into Martin’s face.

“All right, Aunt Cis,” he said; “if Stephen doesn’t mean it, he ought to.  To mean things is what matters.”  He stooped and kissed her forehead.  “Give that to Thyme for me,” he said.  “I shan’t see her for a bit.”

“You’ll never see her, sir,” said Stephen dryly, “if I can help it!  The liquor of your Sanitism is too bright and effervescent.”

Martin’s smile broadened.  “For old bottles,” he said, and with another slow look round went out.

Stephen’s mouth assumed its driest twist.  “Bumptious young devil!” he said.  “If that is the new young man, defend us!”

Over the cool dining-room, with its faint scent of pinks, of melon, and of ham, came silence.  Suddenly Cecilia glided from the room.  Her light footsteps were heard hurrying, now that she was not visible, up to Thyme.

Hilary, too, had moved towards the door.  In spite of his preoccupation, Stephen could not help noticing how very worn his brother looked.

“You look quite seedy, old boy,” he said.  “Will you have some brandy?”

Hilary shook his head.

“Now that you’ve got Thyme back,” he said, “I’d better let you know my news.  I’m going abroad to-morrow.  I don’t know whether I shall come back again to live with B.”

Stephen gave a low whistle; then, pressing Hilary’s arm, he said:  “Anything you decide, old man, I’ll always back you in, but—­”

“I’m going alone.”

In his relief Stephen violated the laws of reticence.

“Thank Heaven for that!  I was afraid you were beginning to lose your head about that girl”

“I’m not quite fool enough,” said Hilary, “to imagine that such a liaison would be anything but misery in the long-run.  If I took the child I should have to stick to her; but I’m not proud of leaving her in the lurch, Stevie.”