Hilary went on quickly. “She was obliged to leave because the husband of the woman with whom she used to lodge became infatuated with her. He has been in prison, and comes out tomorrow. If she continues to come here he will, of course, be able to find her. I'm afraid he will pursue her again. Have I made it clear to you?” “No,” said Mr. Stone. “The man,” resumed Hilary patiently, “is a poor, violent creature, who has been wounded in the head; he is not quite responsible. He may do the girl an injury.” “What injury?” “He has stabbed his wife already.” “I will speak to him,” said Mr. Stone. Hilary smiled. “I am afraid that words will hardly meet the case. She ought to disappear.” There was silence. “My book!” said Mr. Stone. It smote Hilary to see how white his face had become. 'It's better,' he thought, 'to bring his will-power into play; she will never come here, anyway, after I'm gone.' But, unable to bear the tragedy in the old man's eyes, he touched him on the arm. “Perhaps she will take the risk, sir, if you ask her.” Mr. Stone did not answer, and, not knowing what more to say, Hilary went back to the window. Miranda was slumbering lightly out there in the speckled shade, where it was not too warm and not too cold, her cheek resting on her paw and white teeth showing. Mr. Stone's voice rose again. “You are right; I cannot ask her to run a risk like that!” “She is just coming up the garden,” Hilary said huskily. “Shall I tell her to come in?” “Yes,” said Mr. Stone. Hilary beckoned. The girl came in, carrying a tiny bunch of lilies of the valley; her face fell at sight of Mr. Stone; she stood still, raising the lilies to her breast. Nothing could have been more striking than the change from her look of guttered expectancy to a sort of hard dismay. A spot of red came into both her cheeks. She gazed from Mr. Stone to Hilary and back again. Both were staring at her. No one spoke. The little model's bosom began heaving as though she had been running; she said faintly: “Look; I brought you this, Mr. Stone!” and held out to him the bunch of lilies. But Mr. Stone made no sign. “Don't you like them?” Mr. Stone's eyes remained fastened on her face. To Hilary this suspense was, evidently, most distressing. “Come, will you tell her, sir,” he said, “or shall I?” Mr. Stone spoke. “I shall try and write my book without you. You must not run this risk. I cannot allow it.” The little model turned her eyes from side to side. “But I like to copy out your book,” she said. “The man will injure you,” said Mr. Stone. The little model looked at Hilary. “I don't care if he does; I'm not afraid of him. I can look after myself; I'm used to it.” “I am going away,” said Hilary quietly. After a desperate look, that seemed to ask, 'Am I going, too?' the little model stood as though frozen. Wishing to end the painful scene, Hilary went up to Mr. Stone. “Do you want to dictate to her this afternoon, sir?” “No,” said Mr. Stone.