anced
to "give his car a run," and to other connoisseurs. Bianca had invited
her model to be present at this function, intending to get her work.
But, slipping at once into a corner, the girl had stood as far as
possible behind a canvas. People, seeing her standing there, and noting
her likeness to the picture, looked at her with curiosity, and passed on,
murmuring that she was an interesting type. They did not talk to her,
either because they were afraid she could not talk of the things they
could talk of, or that they could not talk of the things she could talk
of, or because they were anxious not to seem to patronize her. She
talked to one, therefore. This occasioned Hilary some distress. He kept
coming up and smiling at her, or making tentative remarks or jests, to
which she would reply, "Yes, Mr. Dallison," or "No, Mr. Dallison," as the
case might be.

Seeing him return from one of these little visits, an Art Critic standing
before the picture had smiled, and his round, clean-shaven, sensual face
had assumed a greenish tint in eyes and cheeks, as of the fat in turtle
soup.

The only two other people who had noticed her particularly were those old
acquaintances, Mr. Purcey and Mr. Stone. Mr. Purcey had thought, 'Rather
a good-lookin' girl,' and his eyes strayed somewhat continually in her
direction. There was something piquant and, as it were, unlawfully
enticing to him in the fact that she was a real artist's model.

Mr. Stone's way of noticing her had been different. He had approached in
his slightly inconvenient way, as though seeing but one thing in the
whole world.

"You are living by yourself?" he had said. "I shall come and see you."

Made by the Art Critic or by Mr. Purcey, that somewhat strange remark
would have had one meaning; made by Mr. Stone it obviously had another.
Having finished what he had to say, the author of the book of "Universal
Brotherhood" had bowed and turned to go. Perceiving that he saw before
him the door and nothing else, everybody made way for him at once. The
remarks that usually arose behind his back began to be
heard--"Extraordinary old man!" "You know, he bathes in the Serpentine
all the year round?" "And he cooks his food himself, and does his own
room, they say; and all the rest of his time he writes a book!" "A
perfect crank!"

CHAPTER V

THE COMEDY BEGINS

The Art Critic who had smiled was--like all men--a subject for pity
rather than for blame.