It travels the wrong way in the Model.
That is the reason why the Little Gentleman said "I hate her, I hate her." That is the reason why the young man John called her the "old fellah," and banished her to the company of the great Unpresentable.

That is the reason why I, the Professor, am picking her to pieces with scalpel and forceps.

That is the reason why the young girl whom she has befriended repays her kindness with gratitude and respect, rather than with the devotion and passionate fondness which lie sleeping beneath the calmness of her amber eyes.

I can see her, as she sits between this estimable and most correct of personages and the misshapen, crotchety, often violent and explosive little man on the other side of her, leaning and swaying towards him as she speaks, and looking into his sad eyes as if she found some fountain in them at which her soul could quiet its thirst.
Women like the Model are a natural product of a chilly climate and high culture.

It is not "The frolic wind that breathes the spring, Zephyr with Aurora playing," when the two meet "-- -on beds of violets blue, And fresh-blown roses washed in dew," that claim such women as their offspring.