Bianca glanced at the letter.

“It is to you,” she said.  “I don’t wish to read it, thank you.”

Stephen compressed his lips.

“But I wish you to hear it, please,” he said.  “I’ll read it out, if
you’ll allow me. 
“’Charing cross station. 
“’Dear Stevie,

“’I told you yesterday morning that I was going abroad alone.  Afterwards I changed my mind—­I meant to take her.  I went to her lodgings for the purpose.  I have lived too long amongst sentiments for such a piece of reality as that.  Class has saved me; it has triumphed over my most primitive instincts.

“’I am going alone—­back to my sentiments.  No slight has been placed on Bianca—­but my married life having become a mockery, I shall not return to it.  The following address will find me, and I shall ask you presently to send on my household gods.

“’Please let Bianca know the substance of this letter.

“’Ever your affectionate brother,
“‘Hilary Dallison."’

With a frown Stephen folded up the letter, and restored it to his breast pocket.

‘It’s more bitter than I thought,’ he reflected; ’and yet he’s done the only possible thing!’

Bianca was leaning her elbow on the mantelpiece with her face turned to the wall.  Her silence irritated Stephen, whose loyalty to his brother longed to fend a vent.

“I’m very much relieved, of course,” he said at last.  “It would have been fatal”

She did not move, and Stephen became increasingly aware that this was a most awkward matter to touch on.

“Of course,” he began again.  “But, B., I do think you—­rather—­I mean—–­” And again he stopped before her utter silence, her utter immobility.  Then, unable to go away without having in some sort expressed his loyalty to Hilary, he tried once more:  “Hilary is the kindest man I know.  It’s not his fault if he’s out of touch with life—­if he’s not fit to deal with things.  He’s negative!”

And having thus in a single word, somewhat to his own astonishment, described his brother, he held out his hand.

The hand which Bianca placed in it was feverishly hot.  Stephen felt suddenly compunctious.

“I’m awfully sorry,” he stammered, “about the whole thing.  I’m awfully sorry for you—–­”

Bianca drew back her hand.

With a little shrug Stephen turned away.

‘What are you to do with women like that?’ was his thought, and saying dryly, “Good-night, B.,” he went.

For some time Bianca sat in Hilary’s chair.  Then, by the faint glimmer coming through the half-open door, she began to wander round the room, touching the walls, the books, the prints, all the familiar things among which he had lived so many years....

In that dim continual journey she was like a disharmonic spirit traversing the air above where its body lies.