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." "I mean," murmured Cecilia, "that we don't know anything about her past." And, seeing from the movement of his eyebrows that she was touching on what had evidently been a doubt with him, she went on with great courage: "Where are her friends and relations?
I mean, she may have had a--adventures." Hilary withdrew into himself.
"You can hardly expect me," he said, "to go into that with her." His reply made Cecilia feel ridiculous.
"Well," she said in a hard little voice, "if this is what comes of helping the poor, I don't see the use of it." The outburst evoked no reply from Hilary; she felt more tremulous than ever.