“I wouldn’t be in your way.  I wouldn’t cost much.  I could do everything you wanted.  I could learn typewriting.  I needn’t live too near, or that; if you didn’t want me, because of people talking; I’m used to being alone.  Oh, Mr. Dallison, I could do everything for you.  I wouldn’t mind anything, and I’m not like some girls; I do know what I’m talking about.”

“Do you?”

The little model put her hands up, and, covering her face, said: 

“If you’d try and see!”

Hilary’s sensuous feeling almost vanished; a lump rose in his throat instead.

“My child,” he said, “you are too generous!”

The little model seemed to know instinctively that by touching his spirit she had lost ground.  Uncovering her face, she spoke breathlessly, growing very pale: 

“Oh no, I’m not.  I want to be let come; I don’t want to stay here.  I know I’ll get into mischief if you don’t take me—­oh, I know I will!”

“If I were to let you come with me,” said Hilary, “what then?  What sort of companion should I be to you, or you to me?  You know very well.  Only one sort.  It’s no use pretending, child, that we’ve any interests in common.”

The little model came closer.

“I know what I am,” she said, “and I don’t want to be anything else.  I can do what you tell me to, and I shan’t ever complain.  I’m not worth any more!”

“You’re worth more,” muttered Hilary, “than I can ever give you, and I’m worth more than you can ever give me.”

The little model tried to answer, but her words would not pass her throat; she threw her head back trying to free them, and stood, swaying.  Seeing her like this before him, white as a sheet, with her eyes closed and her lips parted, as though about to faint, Hilary seized her by the shoulders.  At the touch of those soft shoulders, his face became suffused with blood, his lips trembled.  Suddenly her eyes opened ever so little between their lids, and looked at him.  And the perception that she was not really going to faint, that it was a little desperate wile of this child Delilah, made him wrench away his hands.  The moment she felt that grasp relax she sank down and clasped his knees, pressing them to her bosom so that he could not stir.  Closer and closer she pressed them to her, till it seemed as though she must be bruising her flesh.  Her breath came in sobs; her eyes were closed; her lips quivered upwards.  In the clutch of her clinging body there seemed suddenly the whole of woman’s power of self-abandonment.  It was just that, which, at this moment, so horribly painful to him, prevented Hilary from seizing her in his arms just that queer seeming self-effacement, as though she were lost to knowledge of what she did.  It seemed too brutal, too like taking advantage of a child.

From calm is born the wind, the ripple from the still pool, self out of nothingness—­so all passes imperceptibly, no man knows how.  The little model’s moment of self-oblivion passed, and into her wet eyes her plain, twisting spirit suddenly writhed up again, for all the world as if she had said:  ‘I won’t let you go; I’ll keep you—­I’ll keep you.’