t want to see you!"
besides, it was not true.

"You'll soon be making friends," he said at last, "and you can always
write to me"; and with a queer smile he added: "You're only just
beginning life; you mustn't take these things to heart; you'll find
plenty of people better able to advise and help you than ever I shall
be!"

The little model answered this by seizing his hand with both of hers. She
dropped it again at once, as if guilty of presumption, and stood with her
head bent. Hilary, looking down on the little hat which, by his special
wish, contained no feathers, felt a lump rise in his throat.

"It's funny," he said; "I don't know your Christian name."

"Ivy," muttered the little model.

"Ivy! Well, I'll write to you. But you must promise me to do exactly as
I said."

The girl looked up; her face was almost ugly--like a child's in whom a
storm of feeling is repressed.

"Promise!" repeated Hilary.

With a bitter droop of her lower lip, she nodded, and suddenly put her
hand to her heart. That action, of which she was clearly unconscious, so
naively, so almost automatically was it done, nearly put an end to
Hilary's determination.

"Now you must go," he said.

The little model choked, grew very red, and then quite white.

"Aren't I even to say good-bye to Mr. Stone?"

Hilary shook his head.

"He'll miss me," she said desperately. "He will. I know he will!"

"So shall I," said Hilary. "We can't help that."

The little model drew herself up to her full height; her breast heaved
beneath the clothes which had made her Hilary's. She was very like "The
Shadow" at that moment, as though whatever Hilary might do there she
would be--a little ghost, the spirit of the helpless submerged world, for
ever haunting with its dumb appeal the minds of men.

"Give me your hand," said Hilary.

The little model put out her not too white, small hand. It was soft,
clinging: and as hot as fire.

"Good-bye, my dear, and bless you!"

The little model gave him a look with who-knows-what of reproach in it,
and, faithful to her training, went submissively away.

Hilary did not look after her, but, standing by the lofty mantelpiece
above the ashes of the fire, rested his forehead on his arm. Not even a
fly's buzzing broke the stillness. There was sound for all that-not of
distant music, but of blood beating in his ears and temples.

CHAPTER XXIII

THE "BOOK OF UNIVERSAL BROTHERHOOD"

It is fitting t