Without looking toward Mariana, he went and took them in his hand. They were not soiled. They had only danced one short delightful dance, and stood demurely side by side, longing to start again. The moths had never touched them; they were invulnerable. Then placing them once more upon the sheet, he leaned his hand upon the table and looked at Mariana. Neither pity, distress, cruelty, nor any other emotion played on his face. He stood and looked at her, as deep in thought as if his mind was occupied with pages of a book, a long, long time. Then throwing back the covering from the table, he revealed the thick piles of satin that she had worked at in the three years passed long since. So this was the dress that Rosalie coveted; well, it was worth asking for, or would be when finished. For the first time on Lucifram, and here in one of its most dismal cells, a smile free from artifice, from cynicism, from pride, from cruelty or contempt, ran on his lips and centred in his eyes. But the machine? and how to set it working? Only one way. He crossed to Mariana, laid one hand upon her head, the other in her hands, and stooping, kissed her lips. Then very silently, as some passing from life to death have done, she, with a sigh that trembled gently into every limb, swayed back to life. And on the second breath that stirred her bosom, looked up, and her eyes came to the face of Mr. Barringcourt. “You’ve slept long enough,” said he. “You can’t complain now of being overworked. A long spell of rest, and now comes a short one of work. Are you ready for it?” “Yes.” She rose from the chair, no stiffness, the old slow, easy motion born of coldness; itself born, who could tell of what. “Six days to finish this—and alone. Can you accomplish it?” “For whom?” “Rosalie.” “Has she asked for it?” “Yes.” She stretched her arms, then drew them in. “It’s well, because I fitted it for her, having no other model.” “You are to make it especially beautiful.” “It is not necessary to tell me so.” “And jewels? Everard will bring them to you.” Now she raised her eyebrows slightly and looked at him, and a faint smile came to her lips. “Is Rosalie then so strong to bear so heavy a burden of sorrows as this house affords?” “Search all you can find from the dust hidden in this room, and he will bring the rest. Did Rosalie appear to you so weak?” “I loved her on that account I think.” “Part of a cause that changes weakness into strength. You feel yourself strong, Mariana?” “Oh, no! But cold. The strength of ice, not iron.” “Rosalie has suffered from your complaint, I think. But she’s cured.” Her eyes rested on his. There was a thoughtful expression in them, and she said: “Cured? Then the ice was frozen less deeply.” “Or maybe the fire was stronger. There’s something in that, you know.” “Yes,” said she; then suddenly: “These moths are a great hindrance. I have no time to spend in sighs if I must work hard and finish in six days.”