What voices mean to one!--The delight of that exquisite sound of refinement in the pronunciation. Miss Sharp never misplaces an inflection or slurs a word, she never uses slang, and yet there is nothing pedantic in her selection of language--it is just as if her habitual associates were all of the same class as herself, and that she never heard coarse speech.--Who can she be--? The music of her reading calmed me--how I wish we could be friends--! "How old is Madame Bizot's grandchild?" I asked abruptly, interrupting. "Six months," answered Miss Sharp without looking up. "You like children?" "Yes--." "Perhaps you have brothers and sisters?" "Yes--." I knew that I was looking at her hungrily--and that she was purposely keeping her lids lowered--. "How many?" "Two--." The tone said, "I consider your questions impertinent--." I went on-- "Brothers?" "One brother." "And a sister?" "Yes." "How old?" "Eleven and thirteen." "That is quite a gap between your ages then?" She did not think it necessary to reply to this--there was the faintest impatience in the way she moved the manuscript. I was so afraid to annoy her further in case she should give me notice to go, that I let her have her way, and returned to work. But I was conscious of her presence--thrillingly conscious of her presence all the morning. I never once was able to take the work naturally, it was will alone which made me grind out the words. There was no sign of nervousness in Miss Sharp's manner--I simply did not exist for her--I was a bore, a selfish useless bore of an employer, who was paying her twice as much as anyone else would, and she must in return give the most perfect service. As a man I had no meaning. As a wounded human being she had no pity for me--but I did not want her pity--what did I want?--I cannot write it--I cannot face it--. Am I to have a new torment in my life?--Desiring the unattainable?--Eating my heart out; not that woman can never really love me again, but that, well or ill, the consideration of _one_ woman is beyond my reach--. Miss Sharp is not influenced because I am or am not a cripple--If I were as I was when I first put on my grenadier's uniform, I should still not exist for her probably--she can see the worthless creature that I am--Need I always be so?--I wish to God I knew. * * * * * _Night._ She worked with her usual diligence the entire day almost, not taking the least notice of me, until at five o'clock when my tea came I rang for her--Perhaps it was the irritation reacting upon my sensitive wrenched nerves, but I felt pretty rotten, my hands were damp--another beastly unattractive thing, which as a rule does not happen to me--I asked her to pour out the tea. "If you will be so kind," I said--"I have let Burton go out"--Mercifully this was true--she came in as a person would who knew you had a right to command--you could not have said if she minded or no.