“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.