Hilary made a movement as if he would seize the opportunity to disarm the girl, but Gerald stopped him. As if he read her thought, he spoke it aloud. The big gray spaces of London, the shop-lit, greasy, shining streets, had become very remote; the biological laboratory with its work and emotions, the meetings and discussions, the rides in hansoms with Ramage, were like things in a book read and closed. He turned to observe what this object was that had so unexpectedly diverted the young man's attention. There would be no moon. “You too sing?” he asked. In any case, there was no doing anything on a Sunday and Brewis Charvill, his main quarry, had gone out of town unexpectedly. She is called Madame Ibstock, you understand.
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