“Don't you like this part? Is it too far from your work?”
Again the little model whispered: “Yes.”
Bianca's eyes travelled slowly over the blue beflowered walls and rust-red doors; through the dusty closeness of this dismantled room a rank scent of musk and violets rose, as though a cheap essence had been scattered as libation. A small empty scent-bottle stood on the shabby looking-glass.
“Have you found new lodgings?”
The little model edged closer to the window. A stealthy watchfulness was creeping into her shrinking, dazed face.
She shook her head.
“I don't know where I'm going.”
Obeying a sudden impulse to see more clearly, Bianca lifted her veil. “I came to tell you,” she said, “that I shall always be ready to help you.”
The girl did not answer, but suddenly through her black lashes she stole a look upward at her visitor. 'Can you,' it seemed to say, 'you—help me? Oh no; I think not!' And, as though she had been stung by that glance, Bianca said with deadly slowness:
“It is my business, of course, entirely, now that Mr. Dallison has gone abroad.”