There was a knock at the door, and she flew across the room, alarmed. Who knew what customs these rich people had? A little clock told her that it was just ten; she was sure they didn’t go to bed then. She knew, indeed, from the Sunday papers, that they turned night into day. Perhaps they had a meal now, and she was expected to be ready for it. "What is it?" she asked, through the closed door. "Mrs. Russell wants you at once in her room," said a sharp voice. So she put on her shrunken, faded little kimono and went out into the hall. A light burned there, showing a double row of closed doors. In what possible way was she to know Mrs. Russell’s? She was daunted; she didn’t even know who composed the household; couldn’t imagine who might be behind those closed doors. There wasn’t a sound in the house. She advanced a little, and stopped again, frowning at her own distress, her own fast-beating heart. "I’m only doing what I’m paid to do!" she reassured herself. "If I can’t find her, I’m a fool. I will! I’ll knock at every single door!" She began with a firm rap on the door next her own. There was no response, so she tried the next, and at once that agreeable voice called out: "Come in!" Mrs. Russell lay in bed with her eyes closed, in a lace cap and negligée. Her little rose-shaded lamp gave only a dim light, by which she looked oddly young and pretty; even her tousled hair was charming. The rest of the big room was shadowy, with here and there a glint from glass or silver. There was absolute silence; Mrs. Russell didn’t stir. Angelica felt herself at a great disadvantage in her kimono, standing at the bedside, waiting for orders. It nettled her. "Well!" she demanded, with a boldness that surprised even herself. But Mrs. Russell didn’t notice it, or at least didn’t appear to notice it. She opened her eyes and smiled affably. "I’m horribly selfish, aren’t I? But I’m such a miserable sleeper, and I felt--won’t you read to me a bit?" "All right!" said Angelica; but though she spoke so carelessly, she felt suddenly quite sick. "What shall I read?" "Here’s my book. I suppose you don’t read French, do you?" Angelica reddened. "Yes, of course!" she answered. "Nothing but French spoken in the factory, you know!" "We’ll stick to English, then," said Mrs. Russell, with just the same smile. "And hand me my cigarette-case, won’t you?" Angelica did so, and nervously opened the book at a marked page; but Mrs. Russell stopped her.