Mr. Stone’s voice rose again.  “Their form and balance is their single soul; they have preserved it from century to century.  This is all they live for.  In those days”—­his voice sank; he had plainly forgotten that he was not alone—­“when men had no universal conceptions, they would have done well to look at the trees.  Instead of fostering a number of little souls on the pabulum of varying theories of future life, they should have been concerned to improve their present shapes, and thus to dignify man’s single soul”

“Elms were always considered dangerous trees, I believe,” said Hilary.

Mr. Stone turned, and, seeing his son-in-law beside him, asked: 

“You spoke to me, I think?”

“Yes, sir.”

Mr. Stone said wistfully: 

“Shall we walk?”

They rose from the bench and walked on....

The explanation of the little model’s absence was thus stated by herself to Hilary:  “I had an appointment.”

“More work?”

“A friend of Mr. French.”

“Yes—­who?”

“Mr. Lennard.  He’s a sculptor; he’s got a studio in Chelsea.  He wants me to pose to him.”

“Ah!”

She stole a glance at Hilary, and hung her head.

Hilary turned to the window.  “You know what posing to a sculptor means, of course?”

The little model’s voice sounded behind him, matter-of-fact as ever:  “He said I was just the figure he was looking for.”

Hilary continued to stare through the window.  “I thought you didn’t mean to begin standing for the nude.”

“I don’t want to stay poor always.”

Hilary turned round at the strange tone of these unexpected words.

The girl was in a streak of sunlight; her pale cheeks flushed; her pale, half-opened lips red; her eyes, in their setting of short black lashes, wide and mutinous; her young round bosom heaving as if she had been running.

“I don’t want to go on copying books all my life.”

“Oh, very well.”

“Mr. Dallison!  I didn’t mean that—­I didn’t really!  I want to do what you tell me to do—­I do!”

Hilary stood contemplating her with the dubious, critical look, as though asking:  “What is there behind you?  Are you really a genuine edition, or what?” which had so disconcerted her before.  At last he said:  “You must do just as you like.  I never advise anybody.”

“But you don’t want me to—­I know you don’t.  Of course, if you don’t want me to, then it’ll be a pleasure not to!”

Hilary smiled.

“Don’t you like copying for Mr. Stone?”

The little model made a face.  “I like Mr. Stone—­he’s such a funny old gentleman.”

“That is the general opinion,” answered Hilary.  “But Mr. Stone, you know, thinks that we are funny.”

The little model smiled faintly, too; the streak of sunlight had slanted past her, and, standing there behind its glamour and million floating specks of gold-dust, she looked for the moment like the young Shade of Spring, watching with expectancy for what the year would bring her.