with blue roses on a yellow ground. She remembered how she had lain,
brooding, on that piece of red and yellow tapestry, twisting its
tassels, staring through half-closed eyes at nothing.

There was something different in her look at Hilary. It had lost some of
its childish devotion; it was bolder, as if she had lived and felt, and
brushed a good deal more down off her wings during those few days.

"Mrs. Dallison told me to come," she said. "I thought I might. Mr. Creed
told me about him being in prison."

Hilary made way for her, and, following her into Mr. Stone's presence,
shut the door.

"The truant has returned," he said.

Hearing herself called so unjustly by that name, the little model gushed
deeply, and tried to speak. She stopped at the smile on Hilary's face,
and gazed from him to Mr. Stone and back again, the victim of mingled
feelings.

Mr. Stone was seen to have risen to his feet, and to be very slowly
moving towards his desk. He leaned both arms on his papers for support,
and, seeming to gather strength, began sorting out his manuscript.

Through the open window the distant music of a barrel-organ came
drifting in. Faint, and much too slow, was the sound of the waltz it
played, but there was invitation, allurement, in that tune. The little
model turned towards it, and Hilary looked hard at her. The girl and
that sound together-there, quite plain, was the music he had heard for