Miranda, stealing out between her master and his visitor, growled.

The little model, who was stroking a china ash-tray with her ungloved, inky fingers, muttered, with a smile, half pathetic, half cynical:  “She doesn’t like me!  She knows I don’t belong here.  She hates me to come.  She’s jealous!”

Hilary said abruptly: 

“Tell me!  Have you made any friends since you’ve been in London?”

The girl flashed a look at him that said: 

‘Could I make you jealous?’

Then, as though guilty of afar too daring thought, drooped her head, and answered: 

“No.”

“Not one?”

The little model repeated almost passionately:  “No.  I don’t want any friends; I only want to be let alone.”

Hilary began speaking rapidly.

“But these Hughs have not left you alone.  I told you, I thought you ought to move; I’ve taken another room for you quite away from them.  Leave your furniture with a week’s rent, and take your trunk quietly away to-morrow in a cab without saying a word to anyone.  This is the new address, and here’s the money for your expenses.  They’re dangerous for you, those people.”

The little model muttered desperately:  “But I don’t care what they do!”

Hilary went on:  “Listen!  You mustn’t come here again, or the man will trace you.  We will take care you have what’s necessary till you can get other work.”

The little model looked up at him without a word.  Now that the thin link which bound her to some sort of household gods had snapped, all the patience and submission bred in her by village life, by the hard facts of her story, and by these last months in London, served her well enough.  She made no fuss.  Hilary saw a tear roll down her cheek.

He turned his head away, and said:  “Don’t cry, my child!”

Quite obediently the little model swallowed the tear.  A thought seemed to strike her: 

“But I could see you, Mr. Dallison, couldn’t I, sometimes?”

Seeing from his face that this was not in the programme, she stood silent again, looking up at him.

It was a little difficult for Hilary to say:  “I can’t see you because my wife is jealous!” It was cruel to tell her:  “I don’t want to see you!” besides, it was not true.

“You’ll soon be making friends,” he said at last, “and you can always write to me”; and with a queer smile he added:  “You’re only just beginning life; you mustn’t take these things to heart; you’ll find plenty of people better able to advise and help you than ever I shall be!”

The little model answered this by seizing his hand with both of hers.  She dropped it again at once, as if guilty of presumption, and stood with her head bent.  Hilary, looking down on the little hat which, by his special wish, contained no feathers, felt a lump rise in his throat.

“It’s funny,” he said; “I don’t know your Christian name.”