But even with that craving
was mingled the itch to justify herself, and prove that she could rise
above jealousy.
She made her way to the little model's lodging.
A child admitted her into the bleak passage that served for hall. The
strange medley of emotions passing through Bianca's breast while she
stood outside the girl's door did not show in her face, which wore its
customary restrained, half-mocking look.
The little model's voice faintly said: "Come in."
The room was in disorder, as though soon to be deserted. A closed and
corded trunk stood in the centre of the floor; the bed, stripped of
clothing, lay disclosed in all the barrenness of discoloured ticking.
The china utensils of the washstand were turned head downwards. Beside
that washstand the little model, with her hat on--the hat with the
purplish-pink roses and the little peacock's feather-stood in the
struck, shrinking attitude of one who, coming forward in the expectation
of a kiss, has received a blow.
"You are leaving here, then?" Bianca said quietly.
"Yes," the girl murmured.
"Don't you like this part? Is it too far from your work?"
Again the little model whispered: "Yes."
Bianca's eyes travelled slowly over the blue beflowered walls and
rust-red doors; through the dusty closeness of this dismantled room a
rank scent of musk and violets rose, as though a cheap essence had been
scattered as libation.
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