Hughs' face changed. Its stolidity vanished, the eyes became as quick, passionate, and leaping as a dark torrent. He was more violently alive than she had ever seen a man. Had it been a woman she would have felt--as Cecilia had felt with Mrs. Hughs--the indecency, the impudence of this exhibition; but from that male violence the feminine in her derived a certain satisfaction. So in Spring, when all seems lowering and grey, the hedges and trees suddenly flare out against the purple clouds, their twigs all in flame. The next moment that white glare is gone, the clouds are no longer purple, fiery light no longer quivers and leaps along the hedgerows. The passion in Hughs' face was gone as soon. Bianca felt a sense of disappointment, as though she could have wished her life held a little more of that. He stole a glance at her out of his dark eyes, which, when narrowed, had a velvety look, like the body of a wild bee, then jerked his thumb at the picture of the little model. “It's about her I come to speak.” Blanca faced him frigidly. “I have not the slightest wish to hear.” Hughs looked round, as though to find something that would help him to proceed; his eyes lighted on Hilary's portrait. “Ah! I'd put the two together if I was you,” he said. Blanca walked past him to the door. “Either you or I must leave the room.” The man's face was neither sullen now nor passionate, but simply miserable. “Look here, lady,” he said, “don't take it hard o' me coming here. I'm not out to do you a harm. I've got a wife of my own, and Gawd knows I've enough to put up with from her about this girl. I'll be going in the water one of these days. It's him giving her them clothes that set me coming here.” Blanca opened the door. “Please go,” she said. “I'll go quiet enough,” he muttered, and, hanging his head, walked out. Having seen him through the side door out into the street, Blanca went back to where she had been standing before he came. She found some difficulty in swallowing; for once there was no armour on her face. She stood there a long time without moving, then put the pictures back into their places and went down the little passage to the house. Listening outside her father's door, she turned the handle quietly and went in. Mr. Stone, holding some sheets of paper out before him, was dictating to the little model, who was writing laboriously with her face close above her arm. She stopped at Blanca's entrance. Mr. Stone did not stop, but, holding up his other hand, said: “I will take you through the last three pages again. Follow!” Blanca sat down at the window. Her father's voice, so thin and slow, with each syllable disjointed from the other, rose like monotony itself. “'There were tra-cea-able indeed, in those days, certain rudi-men-tary at-tempts to f-u-s-e the classes....'”