et a large one or a small one?"

"For God's sake," answered Hilary, "a small one--no feathers."

"Oh!"

"Can you attend to me a minute? Have either Hughs or Mrs. Hughs spoken
to you about--coming to my house, about--me?"

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