committed her to nothing. Standing a few inches from its head, closer
than she had ever been of her free will to any dog, she smelt its
smellessness with a long, delicious snuffling, wrinkling up the skin on
her forehead, and through her upturned eyes her little moonlight soul
looked forth. 'How unlike you are,' she seemed to say, 'to all the other
dogs I know! I would love to live with you. Shall I ever find a dog
like you again? "The latest-sterilised cloth--see white label
underneath: 4s. 3d.!"' Suddenly she slithered out her slender grey-pink
tongue and licked its nose. The creature moved a little way and stopped.
Miranda saw that it had wheels. She lay down close to it, for she knew
it was the perfect dog.

Hilary watched the little moonlight lady lying vigilant, affectionate,
beside this perfect dog, who could not hurt her. She panted slightly,
and her tongue showed between her lips. Presently behind his seat he saw
another idyll. A thin white spaniel had come running up. She lay down
in the grass quite close, and three other dogs who followed, sat and
looked at her. A poor, dirty little thing she was, who seemed as if she
had not seen a home for days. Her tongue lolled out, she panted
piteously, and had no collar. Every now and then she turned her eyes,
but though they were so tired and desperate, there was a gleam in them.
'For all its thirst and hunger and exhaustion, this is life!' they seemed
to say. The three dogs, panting too, and watching till it should be her
pleasure to begin to run again, seemed with their moist, loving eyes to
echo: 'This is life!'

Because of this idyll, people near were moving on.

And suddenly the thin white spaniel rose, and, like a little harried
ghost, slipped on amongst the trees, and the three dogs followed her.

CHAPTER XIX

BIANCA

In her studio that afternoon Blanca stood before her picture of the
little model--the figure with parted pale-red lips and haunting,
pale-blue eyes, gazing out of shadow into lamplight.

She was frowning, as though resentful of a piece of work which had the
power to kill her other pictures. What force had moved her to paint like
that? What had she felt while the girl was standing before her, still as
some pale flower placed in a cup of water? Not love--there was no love
in the presentment of that twilight figure; not hate--there was no hate
in the painting of her dim appeal. Yet in the picture of this shadow
girl, bet