The stable-door opens, and the horses turn their heads. She--it is she--goes and passes her fingers gently over the swollen stripes that make little ridges in the close-clipped hair. Once she lays her cheek caressingly upon a cruel furrow, and whispers, "Poor little Ola! if I had only governed my face better, you would not have been so punished!" and Ola turns his satiny muzzle, softer than the daintiest lady's breast, and rubs it against her, to coax for the apples that always follow. She goes from one to the other, and cooes to them, and rubs her chin against their soft noses; and when the stripes are very bad her jaws set, and one can see the mark of the teeth through her thin cheeks. * * * * * "Come here! I want some brandy!... Now put the glass down and come back. What's that mark on your cheek?" "Only the whip touched me." "And you were too damned proud to say so, eh? By the way, I saw some gypsies in the park. Johann can do the translating, they are coming here to play. One of them is a thundering fine girl; I'd like to--What! what's that you said?" "I did not make any remark!" a fine scorn trembles about her pale lips, and her face is a shade grayer. A pause. "Where are your rings?" "Upstairs." "Go and fetch them! Blast it! I don't buy you rings to leave them upstairs." She comes back with them on, and he takes up the slim fingers laden with jewelled bands, spreads them out on his palm, then closes his thumb and finger round her wrist, and laughs a rasping laugh.