The LITTLE MODEL: "But he doesn't go."

And with a flying glance through the just open door Hilary saw her
holding bread-and-butter with inky fingers, her lips a little parted,
expecting the next bite, and her eyes fixed curiously on Mr. Stone,
whose transparent hand held a teacup, and whose eyes were immovably
fixed on distance.

It was one day in April that Mr. Stone, heralded by the scent of Harris
tweed and baked potatoes which habitually encircled him, appeared at
five o'clock in Hilary's study doorway.

"She has not come," he said.

Hilary laid down his pen. It was the first real Spring day.

"Will you come for a walk with me, sir, instead?" he asked.

"Yes," said Mr. Stone.

They walked out into Kensington Gardens, Hilary with his head rather
bent towards the ground, and Mr. Stone, with eyes fixed on his far
thoughts, slightly poking forward his silver beard.

In their favourite firmaments the stars of crocuses and daffodils
were shining. Almost every tree had its pigeon cooing, every bush its
blackbird in full song. And on the paths were babies in perambulators.
These were their happy hunting-grounds, and here they came each day to
watch from a safe distance the little dirty girls sitting on the grass