Hilary, who had waited for that moment, gently
put the manuscript on the desk, and beckoned to the girl. He did not ask
her to his study, but spoke to her in the hall.
"While Mr. Stone is like this he misses you. You will come, then, at
present, please, so long as Hughs is in prison. How do you like your
room?"
The little model answered simply: "Not very much."
"Why not?"
"It's lonely there. I shan't mind, now I'm coming here again."
"Only for the present," was all Hilary could find to say.
The little model's eyes were lowered.
"Mrs. Hughs' baby's to be buried to-morrow," she said suddenly.
"Where?"
"In Brompton Cemetery. Mr. Creed's going."
"What time is the funeral?"
The girl looked up stealthily.
"Mr. Creed's going to start at half-past nine."
"I should like to go myself," said Hilary.
A gleam of pleasure passing across her face was instantly obscured
behind the cloud of her stolidity. Then, as she saw Hilary move nearer
to the door, her lip began to droop.
"Well, good-bye," he said.
The little model flushed and quivered. 'You don't even look at me,' she
seemed to say; 'you haven't spoken kindly to me once.' And suddenly she
said in a hard voice:
"Now I shan't go to Mr. Lennard's any more."
"Oh, then you have been to him!"
Triumph at attracting his attention, fear of what she had admitted,
supplication, and a half-defiant shame--all this was in her face.
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