And while in black insulation he stood there a
timid voice said at his elbow--
"Mr. Creed!"
The aged butler turned, and saw the little model.
"Oh," he said dryly, "it's you, is it?" His mind, with its incessant
love of rank, knowing that she earned her living as a handmaid to that
disorderly establishment, the House of Art, had from the first classed
her as lower than a lady's-maid. Recent events had made him think of
her unkindly. Her new clothes, which he had not been privileged to see
before, while giving him a sense of Sunday, deepened his moral doubts.
"And where are you living now?" he said in tones incorporating these
feelings.
"I'm not to tell you."
"Oh, very well. Keep yourself to yourself."
The little model's lower lip drooped more than ever. There were dark
marks beneath her eyes; her face was altogether rather pinched and
pitiful.
"Won't you tell me any news?" she said in her matter-of-fact voice.
The old butler gave a strange grunt.
"Ho!" he said. "The baby's dead, and buried to-morrer."
"Dead!" repeated the little model.
"I'm a-goin' to the funeral--Brompton Cemetery. Half-past nine I leave
the door. And that's a-beginnin' at the end. The man's in prison, and
the woman's gone a shadder of herself."
The little model rubbed her hands against her skirt.
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