The little model’s voice faintly said:  “Come in.”

The room was in disorder, as though soon to be deserted.  A closed and corded trunk stood in the centre of the floor; the bed, stripped of clothing, lay disclosed in all the barrenness of discoloured ticking.  The china utensils of the washstand were turned head downwards.  Beside that washstand the little model, with her hat on—­the hat with the purplish-pink roses and the little peacock’s feather-stood in the struck, shrinking attitude of one who, coming forward in the expectation of a kiss, has received a blow.

“You are leaving here, then?” Bianca said quietly.

“Yes,” the girl murmured.

“Don’t you like this part?  Is it too far from your work?”

Again the little model whispered:  “Yes.”

Bianca’s eyes travelled slowly over the blue beflowered walls and rust-red doors; through the dusty closeness of this dismantled room a rank scent of musk and violets rose, as though a cheap essence had been scattered as libation.  A small empty scent-bottle stood on the shabby looking-glass.

“Have you found new lodgings?”

The little model edged closer to the window.  A stealthy watchfulness was creeping into her shrinking, dazed face.

She shook her head.

“I don’t know where I’m going.”

Obeying a sudden impulse to see more clearly, Bianca lifted her veil.  “I came to tell you,” she said, “that I shall always be ready to help you.”

The girl did not answer, but suddenly through her black lashes she stole a look upward at her visitor.  ‘Can you,’ it seemed to say, ’you—­help me?  Oh no; I think not!’ And, as though she had been stung by that glance, Bianca said with deadly slowness: 

“It is my business, of course, entirely, now that Mr. Dallison has gone abroad.”

The little model received this saying with a quivering jerk.  It might have been an arrow transfixing her white throat.  For a moment she seemed almost about to fall, but, gripping the window-sill, held herself erect.  Her eyes, like an animal’s in pain, darted here, there, everywhere, then rested on her visitor’s breast, quite motionless.  This stare, which seemed to see nothing, but to be doing, as it were, some fateful calculation, was uncanny.  Colour came gradually back into her lips and eyes and cheeks; she seemed to have succeeded in her calculation, to be reviving from that stab.

And suddenly Bianca understood.  This was the meaning of the packed trunk, the dismantled room.  He was going to take her, after all!

In the turmoil of this discovery two words alone escaped her: 

“I see!”

They were enough.  The girl’s face at once lost all trace of its look of desperate calculation, brightened, became guilty, and from guilty sullen.

The antagonism of all the long past months was now declared between these two—­Bianca’s pride could no longer conceal, the girl’s submissiveness no longer obscure it.  They stood like duellists, one on each side of the trunk—­that common, brown-Japanned, tin trunk, corded with rope.  Bianca looked at it.