'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.