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Updated: April 30, 2025
Going downstairs she thought: "That poor girl looked very tired; it's a shame they give them such long hours!" and she passed into the street. A voice said timidly behind her: "Westminister, marm?" "That's the poor old creature," thought Cecilia Dallison, "whose nose is so unpleasant. I don't really think I " and she felt for a penny in her little bag.
He kept coming up and smiling at her, or making tentative remarks or jests, to which she would reply, "Yes, Mr. Dallison," or "No, Mr. Dallison," as the case might be. Seeing him return from one of these little visits, an Art Critic standing before the picture had smiled, and his round, clean-shaven, sensual face had assumed a greenish tint in eyes and cheeks, as of the fat in turtle soup.
"I didn't feel up to it, ma'am; I didn't really " A tear ran down her cheek, and was caught in a furrow near the mouth. Mrs. Dallison said hurriedly: "Yes, yes; I'm very sorry." "This old gentleman, Mr. Creed, lives in the same house with us, and he is going to speak to my husband." The old man wagged his head on its lean stalk of neck.
"I have but little faith in the experiment," he said, "but the Lord Mayor's injunctions must be obeyed." With the help of Dallison, who had now arrived, Leonard Holt soon procured a large heap of fuel, and placed it in the middle of the street. The day was passed in executing other commissions for the grocer, and he took his meals in the hutch with the porter.
The little model answered quickly: "But I've seen Hughs, Mr. Dallison. He's found out where I live. Oh, he does look dreadful; he frightens me. I can't ever stay there now." She had come a little out of her hiding-place, and stood fidgeting her hands and looking down. 'She's not speaking the truth, thought Hilary. The little model gave him a furtive glance. "I did see him," she said.
The little model answered as before: "Yes, Mr. Dallison." "I'm afraid that Hughs is-a dangerous sort of fellow." "He's a funny man." "Does he annoy you?" Her expression baffled Hilary; there seemed a sort of slow enjoyment in it. She looked up knowingly. "I don't mind him he won't hurt me. Mr. Dallison, do you think blue or green?" Hilary answered shortly: "Bluey-green."
She had a peculiar spiritual significance to Mrs. Stephen Dallison, being just on the borderline between those of Bianca's friends whom Cecilia did not wish and those whom she did wish to come to her own house, for Stephen, a barrister in an official position, had a keen sense of the ridiculous.
A junior partner in a banking-house of some importance, he lived at Wimbledon, whence he passed up and down daily in his car. To this he owed his acquaintance with the family of Dallison. For one day, after telling his chauffeur to meet him at the Albert Gate, he had set out to stroll down Rotten Row, as he often did on the way home, designing to nod to anybody that he knew.
Here he found Dallison the watchman, and they listened in awe-struck silence to the heavy showers, and to the hissing of the blazing embers in their struggle against the hostile element. By-and-by the latter sound ceased. Not a light could be seen throughout the whole length of the street, nor was there any red reflection of the innumerable fires as heretofore in the sky.
I needn't live too near, or that; if you didn't want me, because of people talking; I'm used to being alone. Oh, Mr. Dallison, I could do everything for you. I wouldn't mind anything, and I'm not like some girls; I do know what I'm talking about." "Do you?" The little model put her hands up, and, covering her face, said: "If you'd try and see!"
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