CHAPTER XLI
THE HOUSE OF HARMONY
At half-past ten that evening Stephen walked up the stone-flagged pathway of his brother's house.
“Can I see Mrs. Hilary?”
“Mr. Hilary went abroad this morning, sir, and Mrs. Hilary has not yet come in.”
“Will you give her this letter? No, I'll wait. I suppose I can wait for her in the garden?”
“Oh yes, sit!”
“Very well.”
“I'll leave the door open, sir, in case you want to come in.”
Stephen walked across to the rustic bench and sat down. He stared gloomily through the dusk at his patent-leather boots, and every now and then he flicked his evening trousers with the letter. Across the dark garden, where the boughs hung soft, unmoved by wind, the light from Mr. Stone's open window flowed out in a pale river; moths, born of the sudden heat, were fluttering up this river to its source.