“He'll miss me,” she said desperately. “He will. I know he will!”
“So shall I,” said Hilary. “We can't help that.”
The little model drew herself up to her full height; her breast heaved beneath the clothes which had made her Hilary's. She was very like “The Shadow” at that moment, as though whatever Hilary might do there she would be—a little ghost, the spirit of the helpless submerged world, for ever haunting with its dumb appeal the minds of men.
“Give me your hand,” said Hilary.
The little model put out her not too white, small hand. It was soft, clinging: and as hot as fire.
“Good-bye, my dear, and bless you!”
The little model gave him a look with who-knows-what of reproach in it, and, faithful to her training, went submissively away.
Hilary did not look after her, but, standing by the lofty mantelpiece above the ashes of the fire, rested his forehead on his arm. Not even a fly's buzzing broke the stillness. There was sound for all that-not of distant music, but of blood beating in his ears and temples.