extricably entwined with that
delicate, dim question, the impact of class on class.

Pondering deeply, he ascended the leafy lane that leads between high
railings from Notting Hill to Kensington.

It was so far from traffic that every tree on either side was loud with
the Spring songs of birds; the scent of running sap came forth shyly as
the sun sank low. Strange peace, strange feeling of old Mother Earth up
there above the town; wild tunes, and the quiet sight of clouds. Man in
this lane might rest his troubled thoughts, and for a while trust the
goodness of the Scheme that gave him birth, the beauty of each day, that
laughs or broods itself into night. Some budding lilacs exhaled a scent
of lemons; a sandy cat on the coping of a garden wall was basking in the
setting sun.

In the centre of the lane a row of elm-trees displayed their gnarled,
knotted roots. Human beings were seated there, whose matted hair clung
round their tired faces. Their gaunt limbs were clothed in rags; each
had a stick, and some sort of dirty bundle tied to it. They were asleep.
On a bench beyond, two toothless old women sat, moving their eyes from
side to side, and a crimson-faced woman was snoring. Under the next tree
a Cockney youth and his girl were sitting side by side-pale young things,
with loose mouths, and hollow cheeks, and restless eyes. Their arms were
enlaced; they were silent. A little farther on two young men in working
clothes were looking straight before them, with desperately tired faces.
They, too, were silent.

On the last bench of all Hilary came on the little model, seated slackly
by herself.

CHAPTER X

THE TROUSSEAU

This the first time these two had each other at large, was clearly not a
comfortable event for either of them. The girl blushed, and hastily got
off her seat. Hilary, who raised his hat and frowned, sat down on it.

"Don't get up," he said; "I want to talk to you."

The little model obediently resumed her seat. A silence followed. She
had on the old brown skirt and knitted jersey, the old blue-green
tam-o'-shanter cap, and there were marks of weariness beneath her eyes.

At last Hilary remarked: "How are you getting on?"

The little model looked at her feet.

"Pretty well, thank you, Mr. Dallison."

"I came to see you yesterday."

She slid a look at him which might have meant nothing or meant much, so
perfect its shy stolidity.

"I was out," she said, "sitting to Miss Boyl