Astonished at this flash of cynical inspiration, and ashamed of such plain speaking, she checked herself. Hilary had turned away.
Cecilia touched his arm. “Hilary, dear,” she said, “isn't there any chance of you and B—-”
Hilary's lips twitched. “I should say not.”
Cecilia looked sadly at the floor. Not since Stephen was bad with pleurisy had she felt so worried. The sight of Hilary's face brought back her doubts with all their force. It might, of course, be only anger at the man's impudence, but it might be—she hardly liked to frame her thought—a more personal feeling.
“Don't you think,” she said, “that, anyway, she had better not come here again?”
Hilary paced the room.
“It's her only safe and certain piece of work; it keeps her independent. It's much more satisfactory than this sitting. I can't have any hand in taking it away from her.”
Cecilia had never seen him moved like this. Was it possible that he was not incorrigibly gentle, but had in him some of that animality which she, in a sense, admired? This uncertainty terribly increased the difficulties of the situation.
“But, Hilary,” she said at last, “are you satisfied about the girl—I mean, are you satisfied that she really is worth helping?”
“I don't understand.”