sooner than tread on an ant." The little model, from the moment when he
poured liqueur between her teeth, seemed to feel he had a claim on her,
for she reserved her small, matter-of-fact confessions for his ears. She
made them in the garden, coming in or going out; or outside, and, now
and then, inside his study, like a child who comes and shows you a sore
finger. Thus, quite suddenly:

"I've four shillings left over this week, Mr. Dallison," or, "Old Mr.
Creed's gone to the hospital to-day, Mr. Dallison."

Her face soon became less bloodless than on that first evening, but it
was still pale, inclined to colour in wrong places on cold days, with
little blue veins about the temples and shadows under the eyes. The lips
were still always a trifle parted, and she still seemed to be looking
out for what was coming, like a little Madonna, or Venus, in
a Botticelli picture. This look of hers, coupled with the
matter-of-factness of her speech, gave its flavour to her
personality....

On Christmas Day the picture was on view to Mr. Purcey, who had chanced
to "give his car a run," and to other connoisseurs. Bianca had invited
her model to be present at this function, intending to get her work.
But, slipping at once into a corner, the girl had stood as far as
possible behind a canvas. People, seeing her standing there, and noting
her likeness to the picture, looked at her with curiosity, and passed
on, murmuring that she was an interesting type. They did not talk to
her, either because they were afraid she could not talk of the things
they could talk of, or that they could not talk of the things she could
talk of, or because they were anxious not to seem to patronize her. She
talked to one, therefore. This occasioned Hilary some distress. He kept