Mr. Stone's room, for which he insisted on paying rent, was never
entered by a servant. It was on the ground-floor, and anyone passing the
door between the hours of four and six could hear him dictating slowly,
pausing now and then to spell a word. In these two hours it appeared to
be his custom to read out, for fair copying, the labours of the other
seven.

At five o'clock there was invariably a sound of plates and cups, and
out of it the little model's voice would rise, matter-of-fact, soft,
monotoned, making little statements; and in turn Mr. Stone's, also
making statements which clearly lacked cohesion with those of his young
friend. On one occasion, the door being open, Hilary heard distinctly
the following conversation:

The LITTLE MODEL: "Mr. Creed says he was a butler. He's got an ugly
nose." (A pause.)

Mr. STONE: "In those days men were absorbed in thinking of their
individualities. Their occupations seemed to them important---"

The LITTLE MODEL: "Mr. Creed says his savings were all swallowed up by
illness."

Mr. STONE: "---it was not so."

The LITTLE MODEL: "Mr. Creed says he was always brought up to go to
church."

Mr. STONE (suddenly): "There has been no church worth going to since A.
D. 700."