Hilary smiled.

"Don't you like copying for Mr. Stone?"

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:

"Of course, I know nobody can read his handwriting; but I can't think
why father doesn't dictate to a typist, instead of to that little girl.
She could go twice the pace!"