The little square room was empty; it was neat and
clean enough, with a pink-flowered paper of comparatively modern date.
Through its open window could be seen a pear-tree in full bloom. Hilary
shut the door again with care, ashamed of having opened it.
On the half-landing, staring up at him with black eyes like the baby's,
was a man of medium height and active build, whose short face, with
broad cheekbones, cropped dark hair, straight nose, and little black
moustache, was burnt a dark dun colour. He was dressed in the uniform
of those who sweep the streets--a loose blue blouse, and trousers tucked
into boots reaching half-way up his calves; he held a peaked cap in his
hand.
After some seconds of mutual admiration, Hilary said:
"Mr. Hughs, I believe?" Yes.
"I've been up to see your wife."
"Have you?"
"You know me, I suppose?"
"Yes, I know you."
"Unfortunately, there's only your baby at home."
Hughs motioned with his cap towards the little model's room. "I thought
perhaps you'd been to see her," he said. His black eyes smouldered;
there was more than class resentment in the expression of his face.
Flushing slightly and giving him a keen look, Hilary passed down the
stairs without replying. But Miranda had not followed. She stood, with
one paw delicately held up above the topmost step.
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