He had always tried to keep out of his mind that which might have given him the key to her special feeling for himself--those words of the painter of still life: "She's got a story of some sort." But it flashed across him suddenly like an inspiration: If her story were the simplest of all stories--the direct, rather brutal, love affair of a village boy and girl--would not she, naturally given to surrender, be forced this time to the very antithesis of that young animal amour which had brought on her such, sharp consequences?
But, wherever her devotion came from, it seemed to Hilary the grossest violation of the feelings of a gentleman to treat it ungratefully.

Yet it was as if for the purpose of saying, "You are a nuisance to me, or worse!" that he had asked her to his study.

Her presence had hitherto chiefly roused in him the half-amused, half-tender feelings of one who strokes a foal or calf, watching its soft uncouthness; now, about to say good-bye to her, there was the question of whether that was the only feeling.
Miranda, stealing out between her master and his visitor, growled.
The little model, who was stroking a china ash-tray with her ungloved, inky fingers, muttered, with a smile, half pathetic, half cynical: "She doesn't like me! She knows I don't belong here.

She hates me to come.
She's jealous!" Hilary said abruptly: "Tell me! Have you made any friends since you've been in London ?" The girl flashed a look at him that said: 'Could I make you jealous ?' Then, as though guilty of afar too daring thought, drooped her head, and answered: "No." "Not one ?" The little model repeated almost passionately: "No.

I don't want any friends; I only want to be let alone." Hilary began speaking rapidly.
"But these Hughs have not left you alone.