She clasped her hands, changed her feet with a hop, and went on walking
as before.

"Listen to me," said Hilary; "has Mrs. Hughs been talking to you about
her husband?"

The little model smiled again.

"She goes on," she said.

Hilary bit his lips.

"Mr. Dallison, please--about my hat?"

"What about your hat?"

"Would you like me to get a large one or a small one?"

"For God's sake," answered Hilary, "a small one--no feathers."

"Oh!"

"Can you attend to me a minute? Have either Hughs or Mrs. Hughs spoken
to you about--coming to my house, about--me?"

The little model's face remained impassive, but by the movement of her
fingers Hilary saw that she was attending now.

"I don't care what they say."

Hilary looked away; an angry flush slowly mounted in his face.

With surprising suddenness the little model said:

"Of course, if I was a lady, I might mind!"

"Don't talk like that!" said Hilary; "every woman is a lady."

The stolidity of the girl's face, more mocking far than any smile, warned
him of the cheapness of this verbiage.

"If I was a lady," she repeated simply, "I shouldn't be livin' there,
should I?"

"No," said Hilary; "and you had better not go on living there, anyway."

The little model making no answer, Hilary did not quite know what to say.
It was becoming apparent to him that she viewed the situation with a very
different outlook from himself, and that he did not understand that
outlook.

He felt thoroughly at sea, conscious that this girl's life contained a
thousand things he did not know, a thousand points of view he did not
share.

Their two figures attracted some attention in the crowded street, for
Hilary-tall and slight, with his thin, bearded face and soft felt
hat--was what is known as "a distinguished-looking man"; and the little
model, though not "distinguished-looking" in her old brown skirt and
tam-o'shanter cap, had the sort of face which made men and even women
turn to look at her. To men she was a little bit of strangely
interesting, not too usual, flesh and blood; to women, she was that which
made men turn to look at her. Yet now and again there would rise in some
passer-by a feeling more impersonal, as though the God of Pity had shaken
wings overhead, and dropped a tiny feather.

So walking, and exciting vague interest, they reached the first of the
hundred doors of Messrs. Rose and Thorn.

Hilary had determined on this end door, for, as the adventure