"I heard the cuckoo sing to-day," he said, almost in a whisper, lest Mr.
Stone should be asleep.

"The cuckoo," replied Mr. Stone, "has no sense of brotherhood."

"I forgive him-for his song," murmured Hilary.

"His song," said Mr. Stone, "is alluring; it excites the sexual
instinct."

Then to himself he added:

"She has not come, as yet!"

Even as he spoke there was heard by Hilary a faint tapping on the door.
He rose and opened it. The little model stood outside.




CHAPTER XXIX

RETURN OF THE LITTLE MODEL

That same afternoon in High Street, Kensington, "Westminister," with his
coat-collar raised against the inclement wind, his old hat spotted with
rain, was drawing at a clay pipe and fixing his iron-rimmed gaze on
those who passed him by. It had been a day when singularly few as yet
had bought from him his faintly green-tinged journal, and the low class
of fellow who sold the other evening prints had especially exasperated