“I don't want to go on copying books all my life.”
“Oh, very well.”
“Mr. Dallison! I didn't mean that—I didn't really! I want to do what you tell me to do—I do!”
Hilary stood contemplating her with the dubious, critical look, as though asking: “What is there behind you? Are you really a genuine edition, or what?” which had so disconcerted her before. At last he said: “You must do just as you like. I never advise anybody.”
“But you don't want me to—I know you don't. Of course, if you don't want me to, then it'll be a pleasure not to!”
Hilary smiled.
“Don't you like copying for Mr. Stone?”
The little model made a face. “I like Mr. Stone—he's such a funny old gentleman.”
“That is the general opinion,” answered Hilary. “But Mr. Stone, you know, thinks that we are funny.”
The little model smiled faintly, too; the streak of sunlight had slanted past her, and, standing there behind its glamour and million floating specks of gold-dust, she looked for the moment like the young Shade of Spring, watching with expectancy for what the year would bring her.