Hilary: "I had an appointment."

"More work?"

"A friend of Mr. French."

"Yes--who?"

"Mr. Lennard. He's a sculptor; he's got a studio in Chelsea. He wants
me to pose to him."

"Ah!"

She stole a glance at Hilary, and hung her head.

Hilary turned to the window. "You know what posing to a sculptor means,
of course?"

The little model's voice sounded behind him, matter-of-fact as ever: "He
said I was just the figure he was looking for."

Hilary continued to stare through the window. "I thought you didn't mean
to begin standing for the nude."

"I don't want to stay poor always."

Hilary turned round at the strange tone of these unexpected words.

The girl was in a streak of sunlight; her pale cheeks flushed; her pale,
half-opened lips red; her eyes, in their setting of short black lashes,
wide and mutinous; her young round bosom heaving as if she had been
running.

"I don't want to go on copying books all my life."

"Oh, very well."

"Mr. Dallison! I didn't mean that--I didn't really! I want to do what
you tell me to do--I do!"

Hilary stood contemplating her with the dubious, critical look, as though
asking: "What is there behind you? Are you really a genuine edition, or
what?" which had so disconcerted her before. At last he said: "You must
do just as you like. I never advise anybody."

"But you don't want me to--I know you don't. Of course, if you don't
want me to, then it'll be a pleasure not to!"

Hilary smiled.

"Don't you like copying for Mr. Stone?"

The little model made a face. "I like Mr. Stone--he's such a funny old
gentleman."

"That is the general opinion," answered Hilary. "But Mr. Stone, you
know, thinks that we are funny."

The little model smiled faintly, too; the streak of sunlight had slanted
past her, and, standing there behind its glamour and million floating
specks of gold-dust, she looked for the moment like the young Shade of
Spring, watching with expectancy for what the year would bring her.

With the words "I am ready," spoken from the doorway, Mr. Stone
interrupted further colloquy....

But though the girl's position in the household had, to all seeming,
become established, now and then some little incident--straws blowing
down the wind--showed feelings at work beneath the family's apparent
friendliness, beneath that tentative and almost apologetic manner towards
the poor or helpless, which marks out those who own what Hilary had
called the "social