“Yes. Don’t do it again, Elsie. How far did Woolley go? That’s what I want to know.” “He--he frightened me. He tried to kiss me.” “And succeeded. Anything else?” “Mr. _Williams_!” He gazed at her stonily. “Well,” he said at last, “I’m half inclined to believe you. How old are you?” “Seventeen.” “Seventeen!” he repeated after her, and his accent was covetous. “You should be very innocent, at seventeen, Elsie--very innocent and very pure. Now, my dear little late wife, when we were married, although she was a good deal older than you are, knew nothing whatever. Her husband had to teach her everything. That’s as it should be, Elsie.” A certain prurient relish of his own topic, in Williams’ manner, affected Elsie disagreeably. Neither did she like his reference to Mrs. Williams. She was glad that the conversation should at that point be interrupted by the entrance of the austere Mr. Cleaver. Suspense was beginning to make her feel very irritable. She now wanted Williams to propose marriage to her, but had begun to doubt his ever doing so. He continued to look at her meaningly, and to lay his rather desiccated hand from time to time on her shoulder, or upon the thin fabric of her sleeve, with a lingering, caressing touch. Elsie, however, had inspired too many men to such demonstrations to feel elated by them, and her employer’s proximity roused in her little or no physical response. One day, to her surprise, he brought her a present. “Open it, Elsie.” She eagerly lifted the lid of the small cardboard box. Inside was a large turquoise brooch, shaped like a swallow, with outspread wings. She knew instantly that it had belonged to his dead wife, but the knowledge did not lessen her pleasure at possessing a trinket that she thought beautiful as well as valuable, nor her triumph that he should wish to give it to her. “Oh, I say, how lovely! Do you really mean me to keep it?” “Yes, really,” Mr. Williams assured her solemnly. “But I couldn’t! It’s too lovely--I mean to say, really it is!” “No, it isn’t, Elsie. You must please put it on, and let me have the pleasure of seeing you wear it.” “Put it on for me, then,” murmured Elsie, glancing up at him, and then down again. He took the ornament from her with hands that fumbled. “Where?” “Just _here_.” She indicated the round neck of her transparent blouse, just below the collar-bone. He stuck the pin in clumsily enough, and she stifled a little scream as it pricked her, but remained passive under his slowly-moving, dry-skinned fingers. “There! I’m sorry there isn’t a looking-glass, Elsie.” “Oh, I’ve got one! Don’t look, though!” She stooped, pulled up her skirt, revealing a plump calf, and in a flash had pulled out a tiny combined mirror and powder-puff from the top of her stocking. She had no other pocket. Williams did not utter a sound. He only kept his pale grey eyes fixed gleamingly upon her.