He was extremely
pink.
Hilary went to meet them.
"What's the matter, sir?" he said.
"I cut him over the legs," said Mr. Stone. "I do not regret it"; and he
walked on to his room.
Hilary turned to the little model.
"It was a little dog. The man kicked it, and Mr. Stone hit him. He broke
his stick. There were several men; they threatened us." She looked up at
Hilary. "I-I was frightened. Oh! Mr. Dallison, isn't he funny?"
"All heroes are funny," murmured Hilary.
"He wanted to hit them again, after his stick was broken. Then a
policeman came, and they all ran away."
"That was quite as it should be," said Hilary. "And what did you do?"
Perceiving that she had not as yet made much effect, the little model
cast down her eyes.
"I shouldn't have been frightened if you had been there!"
"Heavens!" muttered Hilary. "Mr. Stone is far more valiant than I."
"I don't think he is," she replied stubbornly, and again looked up at
him.
"Well, good-night!" said Hilary hastily. "You must run off...."
That same evening, driving with his wife back from a long, dull dinner,
Hilary began:
"I've something to say to you."
An ironic "Yes?" came from the other corner of the cab.
"There is some trouble with the little model."
"Really!"
"This man Hughs has become infatuated with her.
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