This is the new
address, and here's the money for your expenses. They're dangerous for
you, those people."
The little model muttered desperately: "But I don't care what they do!"
Hilary went on: "Listen! You mustn't come here again, or the man will
trace you. We will take care you have what's necessary till you can get
other work."
The little model looked up at him without a word. Now that the thin
link which bound her to some sort of household gods had snapped, all the
patience and submission bred in her by village life, by the hard facts
of her story, and by these last months in London, served her well
enough. She made no fuss. Hilary saw a tear roll down her cheek.
He turned his head away, and said: "Don't cry, my child!"
Quite obediently the little model swallowed the tear. A thought seemed
to strike her:
"But I could see you, Mr. Dallison, couldn't I, sometimes?"
Seeing from his face that this was not in the programme, she stood
silent again, looking up at him.
It was a little difficult for Hilary to say: "I can't see you because my
wife is jealous!" It was cruel to tell her: "I don't want to see you!"
besides, it was not true.
"You'll soon be making friends," he said at last, "and you can always
write to me"; and with a queer smile he added: "You're only just
beginning life; you mustn't take these things to heart; you'll find
plenty of people better able to advise and help you than ever I shall
be!"
The little model answered this by seizing his hand with both of hers.
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