When she arrived home in Hanover Street it was nine o’clock—­an hour well on in the day for Euphrasia.  Unlocking the kitchen door, she gave a glance at the stove to assure herself that it had not been misbehaving, and went into the passage on her way up-stairs to take off her gown before sitting down to reflect upon the astonishing thing she had heard.  Habit had so crystallized in Euphrasia that no news, however amazing, could have shaken it.  But in the passage she paused; an unwonted, or rather untimely, sound reached her ears, a sound which came from the front of the house—­and at nine o’clock in the morning!  Had Austen been at home, Euphrasia would have thought nothing of it.  In her remembrance Hilary Vane, whether he returned from a journey or not, had never been inside the house at that hour on a week-day; and, unlike the gentleman in “La Vie de Boheme,” Euphrasia did not have to be reminded of the Sabbath.

Perhaps Austen had returned!  Or perhaps it was a burglar!  Euphrasia, undaunted, ran through the darkened front hall to where the graceful banister ended in a curve at the foot of the stairs, and there, on the bottom step, sat a man with his head in his hands.  Euphrasia shrieked.  He looked up, and she saw that it was Hilary Vane.  She would have shrieked, anyway.

“What in the world’s the matter with you?” she cried.

“I—­I stumbled coming down the stairs,” he said.

“But what are you doing at home in the middle of the morning?” she demanded.

He did not answer her.  The subdued light which crept under the porch and came in through the fan shaped window over the door fell on his face.

“Are you sick?” said Euphrasia.  In all her life she had never seen him look like that.

He shook his head, but did not attempt to rise.  A Hilary Vane without vigour!

“No,” he said, “no.  I just came up here from the train to—­get somethin’ I’d left in my room.”

“A likely story!” said Euphrasia.  “You’ve never done that in thirty years.  You’re sick, and I’m a-going for the doctor.”

She put her hand to his forehead, but he thrust it away and got to his feet, although in the effort he compressed his lips and winced.

“You stay where you are,” he said; “I tell you I’m not sick, and I’m going down to the square.  Let, the doctors alone—­I haven’t got any use for ’em.”

He walked to the door, opened it, and went out and slammed it in her face.  By the time she had got it open again—­a crack—­he had reached the sidewalk, and was apparently in full possession of his powers and faculties.

CHAPTER XXIII

A FALLING-OUT IN HIGH PLACES