The little model’s face remained impassive, but by the movement of her fingers Hilary saw that she was attending now.

“I don’t care what they say.”

Hilary looked away; an angry flush slowly mounted in his face.

With surprising suddenness the little model said: 

“Of course, if I was a lady, I might mind!”

“Don’t talk like that!” said Hilary; “every woman is a lady.”

The stolidity of the girl’s face, more mocking far than any smile, warned him of the cheapness of this verbiage.

“If I was a lady,” she repeated simply, “I shouldn’t be livin’ there, should I?”

“No,” said Hilary; “and you had better not go on living there, anyway.”

The little model making no answer, Hilary did not quite know what to say.  It was becoming apparent to him that she viewed the situation with a very different outlook from himself, and that he did not understand that outlook.

He felt thoroughly at sea, conscious that this girl’s life contained a thousand things he did not know, a thousand points of view he did not share.

Their two figures attracted some attention in the crowded street, for Hilary-tall and slight, with his thin, bearded face and soft felt hat—­was what is known as “a distinguished-looking man”; and the little model, though not “distinguished-looking” in her old brown skirt and tam-o’shanter cap, had the sort of face which made men and even women turn to look at her.  To men she was a little bit of strangely interesting, not too usual, flesh and blood; to women, she was that which made men turn to look at her.  Yet now and again there would rise in some passer-by a feeling more impersonal, as though the God of Pity had shaken wings overhead, and dropped a tiny feather.

So walking, and exciting vague interest, they reached the first of the hundred doors of Messrs. Rose and Thorn.

Hilary had determined on this end door, for, as the adventure grew warmer, he was more alive to its dangers.  To take this child into the very shop frequented by his wife and friends seemed a little mad; but that same reason which caused them to frequent it—­the fact that there was no other shop of the sort half so handy—­was the reason which caused Hilary to go there now.  He had acted on impulse; he knew that if he let his impulse cool he would not act at all.  The bold course was the wise one; this was why he chose the end door round the corner.  Standing aside for her to go in first, he noticed the girl’s brightened eyes and cheeks; she had never looked so pretty.  He glanced hastily round; the department was barren for their purposes, filled entirely with pyjamas.  He felt a touch on his arm.  The little model, rather pink, was looking up at him.

“Mr. Dallison, am I to get more than one set of—­underthings?”

“Three-three,” muttered Hilary; and suddenly he saw that they were on the threshold of that sanctuary.  “Buy them,” he said, “and bring me the bill.”