She dropped it again at once, as if guilty of presumption, and stood
with her head bent. Hilary, looking down on the little hat which, by his
special wish, contained no feathers, felt a lump rise in his throat.
"It's funny," he said; "I don't know your Christian name."
"Ivy," muttered the little model.
"Ivy! Well, I'll write to you. But you must promise me to do exactly as
I said."
The girl looked up; her face was almost ugly--like a child's in whom a
storm of feeling is repressed.
"Promise!" repeated Hilary.
With a bitter droop of her lower lip, she nodded, and suddenly put her
hand to her heart. That action, of which she was clearly unconscious,
so naively, so almost automatically was it done, nearly put an end to
Hilary's determination.
"Now you must go," he said.
The little model choked, grew very red, and then quite white.
"Aren't I even to say good-bye to Mr. Stone?"
Hilary shook his head.
"He'll miss me," she said desperately. "He will. I know he will!"
"So shall I," said Hilary. "We can't help that."
The little model drew herself up to her full height; her breast heaved
beneath the clothes which had made her Hilary's. She was very like "The
Shadow" at that moment, as though whatever Hilary might do there she
would be--a little ghost, the spirit of the helpless submerged world,
for ever haunting with its dumb appeal the minds of men.
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