She made no fuss.

Hilary saw a tear roll down her cheek.
He turned his head away, and said: "Don't cry, my child!" Quite obediently the little model swallowed the tear.

A thought seemed to strike her: "But I could see you, Mr.Dallison, couldn't I, sometimes ?" Seeing from his face that this was not in the programme, she stood silent again, looking up at him.
It was a little difficult for Hilary to say: "I can't see you because my wife is jealous!" It was cruel to tell her: "I don't want to see you!" besides, it was not true.
"You'll soon be making friends," he said at last, "and you can always write to me"; and with a queer smile he added: "You're only just beginning life; you mustn't take these things to heart; you'll find plenty of people better able to advise and help you than ever I shall be!" The little model answered this by seizing his hand with both of hers.
She dropped it again at once, as if guilty of presumption, and stood with her head bent.

Hilary, looking down on the little hat which, by his special wish, contained no feathers, felt a lump rise in his throat.
"It's funny," he said; "I don't know your Christian name." "Ivy," muttered the little model.
"Ivy! Well, I'll write to you.

But you must promise me to do exactly as I said." The girl looked up; her face was almost ugly--like a child's in whom a storm of feeling is repressed.
"Promise!" repeated Hilary.
With a bitter droop of her lower lip, she nodded, and suddenly put her hand to her heart.