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."