“It's funny,” he said; “I don't know your Christian name.”
“Ivy,” muttered the little model.
“Ivy! Well, I'll write to you. But you must promise me to do exactly as I said.”
The girl looked up; her face was almost ugly—like a child's in whom a storm of feeling is repressed.
“Promise!” repeated Hilary.
With a bitter droop of her lower lip, she nodded, and suddenly put her hand to her heart. That action, of which she was clearly unconscious, so naively, so almost automatically was it done, nearly put an end to Hilary's determination.
“Now you must go,” he said.
The little model choked, grew very red, and then quite white.
“Aren't I even to say good-bye to Mr. Stone?”
Hilary shook his head.