"Yes," she said.
Hilary did not speak.
"I didn't care any more when you told me I wasn't to come here."
Still Hilary did not speak.
"I haven't done anything wrong," she said, with tears in her voice.
"No, no," said Hilary; "of course not!"
The little model choked.
"It's my profession."
"Yes, yes," said Hilary; "it's all right."
"I don't care what he thinks; I won't go again so long as I can come
here."
Hilary touched her shoulder.
"Well, well," he said, and opened the front door.
The little model, tremulous, like' a flower kissed by the sun after
rain, went out with a light in her eyes.
The master of the house returned to Mr. Stone. Long he sat looking at
the old man's slumber. "A thinker meditating upon action!" So might
Hilary's figure, with its thin face resting on its hand, a furrow
between the brows, and that painful smile, have been entitled in any
catalogue of statues.
CHAPTER XXX
FUNERAL OF A BABY
Following out the instinct planted so deeply in human nature for
treating with the utmost care and at great expense when dead those, who,
when alive, have been served with careless parsimony, there started
from the door of No. 1 in Hound Street a funeral procession of three
four-wheeled cabs. The first bore the little coffin, on which lay a
great white wreath (gift of Cecilia and Thyme).
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