His mortified face was recognised by the landlady, returning from her morning’s visit to the shops.  The gentleman looked, she thought, as if he had received bad news!  She not unnaturally connected his appearance with her lodger.  Tapping on the girl’s door, and receiving no answer, she went in.

The little model was lying on the dismantled bed, pressing her face into the blue and white ticking of the bolster.  Her shoulders shook, and a sound of smothered sobbing came from her.  The landlady stood staring silently.

Coming of Cornish chapel-going stock, she had never liked this girl, her instinct telling her that she was one for whom life had already been too much.  Those for whom life had so early been too much, she knew, were always “ones for pleasure!” Her experience of village life had enabled her to construct the little model’s story—­that very simple, very frequent little story.  Sometimes, indeed, trouble of that sort was soon over and forgotten; but sometimes, if the young man didn’t do the right thing by her, and the girl’s folk took it hardly, well, then—–!  So had run the reasoning of this good woman.  Being of the same class, she had looked at her lodger from the first without obliquity of vision.

But seeing her now apparently so overwhelmed, and having something soft and warm down beneath her granitic face and hungry eyes, she touched her on the back.

“Come, now!” she said; “you mustn’t take on!  What is it?”

The little model shook off the hand as a passionate child shakes itself free of consolation.  “Let me alone!” she muttered.

The landlady drew back.  “Has anyone done you a harm?” she said.

The little model shook her head.

Baffled by this dumb grief, the landlady was silent; then, with the stolidity of those whose lives are one long wrestling with fortune, she muttered: 

“I don’t like to see anyone cry like that!”

And finding that the girl remained obstinately withdrawn from sight or sympathy, she moved towards the door.

“Well,” she said, with ironical compassion, “if you want me, I’ll be in the kitchen.”

The little model remained lying on her bed.  Every now and then she gulped, like a child flung down on the grass apart from its comrades, trying to swallow down its rage, trying to bury in the earth its little black moment of despair.  Slowly those gulps grew fewer, feebler, and at last died away.  She sat up, sweeping Hilary’s bundle of notes, on which she had been lying, to the floor.

At sight of that bundle she broke out afresh, flinging herself down sideways with her cheek on the wet bolster; and, for some time after her sobs had ceased again, still lay there.  At last she rose and dragged herself over to the looking-glass, scrutinising her streaked, discoloured face, the stains in the cheeks, the swollen eyelids, the marks beneath her eyes; and listlessly she tidied herself.  Then, sitting down on the brown tin trunk, she picked the bundle of notes off the floor.  They gave forth a dry peculiar crackle.  Fifteen ten-pound notes—­all Hilary’s travelling money.  Her eyes opened wider and wider as she counted; and tears, quite suddenly, rolled down on to those thin slips of paper.