"Oh, I’m so cold!" she cried. "I’m chilled to the bone!" "Hush," whispered Jennings, in mortal fear. "Speak lower, yer little leddyship, if you don’t want to ruin me." "What’s the meaning of this?" exclaimed Indiana. "Where’s my husband?" "Asleep." "Asleep! You heard me, why didn’t you open the door?" "The master took the key from me." Indiana rose from the fire with a horror-stricken face. "He heard me, then—he knew I was there?" "You won’t tell him I helped you in, yer little leddyship?" asked Jennings, clasping and unclasping his hands, in a nervous, frightened fashion. "He said he’d dismiss me on the spot—and he always keeps his word." "Yes, he keeps his word," repeated Indiana, in a dazed tone, leaning against the table. "I won’t tell—and I’m in now, thanks to you. It’s a terrible thing to be locked out on a cold night." She shivered, folding her arms across her bare neck and shoulders. She had left her wrap on the step, in order to be disencumbered as she climbed up to the window. "Jennings," called Thurston’s voice. "Are you in here? I thought I heard someone moving." "Go," whispered Indiana. Jennings slipped quietly from the room. Thurston, feeling his way to the table, pressed the electric button of the lamp, then started slightly at beholding Indiana. She faced him with clenched hands, panting with rage and excitement. "You locked me out," she said, hysterically. "And you came in by the window," answered Thurston, coldly and calmly, giving a comprehensive glance at the open window. "You heard me knock, and you left me on the doorstep." "You had due warning." "Yes, you sent me a nice message with my father—to make me look ridiculous in the eyes of my own family. I waited purposely till after one o’clock to prove to them that I was no servant, compelled to come home at a stated hour, or have the door shut in my face." Her fingers tore nervously at her gloves. "You are my husband—not my jailer, I am your wife—not your prisoner, to be let out on parole. I give you full liberty of action—if you do not give me the same, I shall take it. How dare you leave your wife out on the doorstep, like an outcast?—how dare you?" "I dare do whatever is for your good." "My good!" she repeated, with a cold laugh. "I am a child, then, to be lectured into silence, to be terrorized into submission. Ah, you do not know me! I will not live with you—I will never forgive you—until you come on your knees to me—on your knees!" "I have not asked forgiveness. It is for you to do that. My wife must not outrage my sense of dignity and propriety. You have hurt and wounded me beyond pardon. The sacredness of my home relations has been violated and coarsely discussed. I am ashamed to raise my head before my own servants. And to make it, at last, unbearable—your old sweetheart calls me to account for your unhappiness. It is too galling—too humiliating!" [Illustration: "I—I—what have I said? I didn’t mean it."]