Mr. Stone paused again, seeming to weigh his last sentences.
“That, I think,” he murmured to himself, “is true.” And suddenly he addressed his daughter. “Do you agree with me, my dear?”
He was evidently waiting with anxiety for her answer, and the little silver hairs that straggled on his lean throat beneath his beard were clearly visible.
“Yes, Father, I agree.”
“Ah!” said Mr. Stone, “I am glad that you confirm me. I was anxious. Follow!”
Bianca rose. Burning spots of colour had settled in her cheeks. She went towards the door, and the little model pursued her figure with a long look, cringing, mutinous, and wistful.
CHAPTER XX
THE HUSBAND AND THE WIFE
It was past six o'clock when Hilary at length reached home, preceded a little by Miranda, who almost felt within her the desire to eat. The lilac bushes, not yet in flower, were giving forth spicy fragrance. The sun still netted their top boughs, as with golden silk, and a blackbird, seated on a low branch of the acacia-tree, was summoning the evening. Mr. Stone, accompanied by the little model, dressed in her new clothes, was coming down the path. They were evidently going for a walk, for Mr. Stone wore his hat, old and soft and black, with a strong green tinge, and carried a paper parcel, which leaked crumbs of bread at every step.