The sunlight had passed off the pear-tree; its bloom was now
white, and almost as still as snow. The little model put another sweet
into her mouth, and producing from her pocket an ancient leather purse,
counted out her money. Evidently discovering that it was no more than
she expected, she sighed, and rummaged out of a top drawer an old
illustrated magazine.
She sat down on the bed, and, turning the leaves rapidly till she
reached a certain page, rested the paper in her lap. 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.
CHAPTER XII
SHIPS IN SAIL
In due accord with the old butler's comment on his looks, Hilary had
felt so young that, instead of going home, he mounted an omnibus, and
went down to his club--the "Pen and Ink," so called because the man
who founded it could not think at the moment of any other words. This
literary person had left the club soon after its initiation, having
conceived for it a sudden dislike. It had indeed a certain reputation
for bad cooking, and all its members complained bitterly at times that
you never could go in without meeting someone you knew.
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