“Elms were always considered dangerous trees, I believe,” said Hilary.
Mr. Stone turned, and, seeing his son-in-law beside him, asked:
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.”
“Mr. Lennard. He's a sculptor; he's got a studio in Chelsea. He wants me to pose to him.”
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.”
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.”
“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!”
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.
With the words “I am ready,” spoken from the doorway, Mr. Stone interrupted further colloquy....
But though the girl's position in the household had, to all seeming, become established, now and then some little incident--straws blowing down the wind--showed feelings at work beneath the family's apparent friendliness, beneath that tentative and almost apologetic manner towards the poor or helpless, which marks out those who own what Hilary had called the “social conscience.” Only three days, indeed, before he sat in his brown study, meditating beneath the bust of Socrates, Cecilia, coming to lunch, had let fall this remark: