The little model's face wore a half-caught-out, half-stolid look.
"Please go in," Bianca said; "my father will be glad to see you."
She held the garden gate open for the girl to pass through. Her feeling at that moment was one of slight amusement at the futility of her journey. Not even this small piece of generosity was permitted her, it seemed.
The little model made an impulsive movement at such an unexpected question. Checking it at once, she answered:
"Very well, thank you; that is, not very---"
"You will find my father tired to-day; he has caught a chill. Don't let him read too much, please."
The little model seemed to try and nerve herself to make some statement, but, failing, passed into the house.
Bianca did not follow, but stole back into the garden, where the sun was still falling on a bed of wallflowers at the far end. She bent down over these flowers till her veil touched them. Two wild bees were busy there, buzzing with smoky wings, clutching with their black, tiny legs at the orange petals, plunging their black, tiny tongues far down into the honeyed centres. The flowers quivered beneath the weight of their small dark bodies. Bianca's face quivered too, bending close to them, nor making the slightest difference to their hunt.