had soaked his system through and through; permeated every cranny of his
spirit, so that to think a definite thought, or do a definite deed, was
obviously becoming difficult to him. It took in the main the form of a
sort of gentle desiccating humour.

"It's a remarkable thing," he had one day said to Stephen, "that by the
process of assimilating little bits of chopped-up cattle one should be
able to form the speculation of how remarkable a thing it is."

Stephen had paused a second before answering--they were lunching off
roast beef in the Law Courts--he had then said:

"You're surely not going to eschew the higher mammals, like our
respected father-in-law?"

"On the contrary," said Hilary, "to chew them; but it is remarkable, for
all that; you missed my point."

It was clear that a man who could see anything remarkable in such a
thing was far gone, and Stephen had murmured:

"My dear old chap, you're getting too introspective."

Hilary, having given his brother the special retiring smile, which
seemed not only to say; "Don't let me bore you," but also, "Well,
perhaps you had better wait outside," the conversation closed.

That smile of Hilary's, which jibbed away from things, though
disconcerting and apt to put an end to intercourse, was natural enough.
A sensitive man, who had passed his life amongst cultivated people in