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"I entirely approve of the plan," observed the doctor; "it will obviate many difficulties. I have just received a message from Mr. Bloundel, by Dallison, the porter, to say he intends sending Blaize with you. I will therefore provide pillions for the horses, so that the whole party can be accommodated."
Well, when I got there in the car I found Dallison in the garden. Of course I was careful not to put my foot into it. I told him: 'I found this old gentleman wandering about. I've just brought him back in my car. Who should the old chap turn out to be but her father! They were awfully obliged to me.
Purcey laid his hand on the flank of his palpitating car. "Know these A.i. Damyers, Mrs. Dallison? Best value you can get, simply rippin' little cars. Wish you'd try her." The A.i. Damyer, diffusing an aroma of the finest petrol, leaped and trembled, as though conscious of her master's praise. Cecilia looked at her. "Yes," she said, "she's very sweet." "Now do!" said Mr. Purcey.
Her eyes were fixed on a photograph in the left-hand corner-one of those effigies of writers that appear occasionally in the public press. Under it were printed the words: "Mr. Hilary Dallison." And suddenly she heaved a sigh. The room grew darker; the wind, getting up as the sun went down, blew a few dropped petals of the pear-tree against the window-pane.
She turned out of the main street into a road preserved from commoner forms of traffic, and stopped at a long low house half hidden behind the trees of its front garden. It was the residence of Hilary Dallison, her husband's brother, and himself the husband of Bianca, her own sister. The queer conceit came to Cecilia that it resembled Hilary.
"We'll smoke, Stevie, if Cis doesn't mind." Stephen Dallison placed a cigarette between his moustacheless lips, always rather screwed up, and ready to nip with a smile anything that might make him feel ridiculous. "Phew!" he said. "Our friend Purcey becomes a little tedious. He seems to take the whole of Philistia about with him." "He's a very decent fellow," murmured Hilary.
He hasn't an idea beyond referring her to the S.P.B." She was gone; and Hilary, with a sigh, took his pen up, but he wrote nothing down .... Hilary and Stephen Dallison were grandsons of that Canon Dallison, well known as friend, and sometime adviser, of a certain Victorian novelist.
He looked down at his companion her eyes were lowered; he could not tell at all what she was thinking of. "This is what I was going to speak to you about," he said: "I don't like that house you're in; I think you ought to be somewhere else. What do you say?" "Yes, Mr. Dallison." "You'd better make a change, I think; you could find another room, couldn't you?"
Still, as he constantly appeared at the same spot, the grocer began to have a new apprehension, and to suspect he was an emissary of the Earl of Rochester, and he sent Dallison to inquire his business. The youth returned an evasive answer, and withdrew; but the next day he was there again. On this occasion, Mr. Bloundel pointed him out to Leonard Holt, and asked him if he had seen him before.
Thus, quite suddenly: "I've four shillings left over this week, Mr. Dallison," or, "Old Mr. Creed's gone to the hospital to-day, Mr. Dallison." Her face soon became less bloodless than on that first evening, but it was still pale, inclined to colour in wrong places on cold days, with little blue veins about the temples and shadows under the eyes.
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