“I'm not to tell you.”
“Oh, very well. Keep yourself to yourself.”
The little model's lower lip drooped more than ever. There were dark marks beneath her eyes; her face was altogether rather pinched and pitiful.
“Won't you tell me any news?” she said in her matter-of-fact voice.
The old butler gave a strange grunt.
“Ho!” he said. “The baby's dead, and buried to-morrer.”
“Dead!” repeated the little model.
“I'm a-goin' to the funeral—Brompton Cemetery. Half-past nine I leave the door. And that's a-beginnin' at the end. The man's in prison, and the woman's gone a shadder of herself.”
The little model rubbed her hands against her skirt.
“What did he go to prison for?”