Then Mr. Marrapit spoke: “I see you are. Discontinue.” The command was shot at her. Trembling against the shock she could only murmur: “Discontinue?” “Assuredly. Discontinue. Refrain. Adjust.” “Discontinue...?” With difficulty she articulated the word, then put after it on a little squeak: “... What?” “It,” rapped Mr. Marrapit. “I am afraid--” “I quake in terror.” “I don't understand.” “Pah!” Mr. Marrapit exclaimed. “You said 'I am.' Were you not about to say 'I am standing on the polished boards'?” “No.” “I believed that was in your mind. Let it now enter your mind. You are on the polished boards. You have high heels. I quake in terror lest they have left scratch or blemish. Adjust your position.” Mary stepped to the carpet. She was dumb before this man. Mr. Marrapit bent above the polished flooring where she had stood. “There is no scratch,” he announced, “neither is there any blemish.” He resumed his post against the fireplace and again regarded her: “You are young.” “I am older really.” “Elucidate that.” “I mean--I am not inexperienced.” “Why say one thing and mean another? Beware the habit. It is perilous.” “Indeed it is not my habit.” “It is your recreation, then. Do not indulge it. Continue.” “I am young, but I have had experience. I think if you were to engage me I would give you satisfaction.” “Adduce grounds.” “I would try in every way to do as you required. I understand I am to look after cats.” “Where?” “Here.” “Abandon that impression. I have not said so.” “No, I mean if you engage me.” “Again you say one thing and mean another. I am suspicious. It is a habit.” “Oh, _indeed_ it is not.” “Then if a recreation, a recreation to which you are devoted. You romp in it. Twice within a minute you have gambolled.” My Mary blinked tears. Since rising that morning, her nerves had been upon the stretch against this interview. She had schooled herself against all possibilities so as to win into the house of her dear George, yet at every moment she seemed to fall further from success. “You ca-catch me up so,” she trembled. Mr. Marrapit expanded upwards. “Catch you up! A horrible accusation. The table is between us.” “You mis-misunderstand me.” She silenced a little sniff with a dab of her handkerchief. She looked very pretty. Mr. Marrapit placed beside her the mental image of Mrs. Major; and at every point she had the prize. He liked the soft gold hair; he liked the forlorn little face it enframed; he liked the slim little form. His cats, he suspected, would appreciate those nice little hands; he judged her to have nice firm legs against which his cats could rub. Mrs. Major's, he apprehended, would have been bony; not legs, but shanks. Mary made another dab at her now red little nose. The silence increased her silly fright. “You mis-misunderstand me,” she repeated.