It is the old man Slyme. As she sees him there returns to Portia the memory of many other times when she has met him here in this corridor, with apparently no meaning for his presence. Some unaccountable and utterly vague feeling of dislike for this man has been hers ever since she first saw him. He is repugnant to her in a remarkable degree, considering how little he has to do with her life in any way. "He seems to haunt this part of the house," she says to herself now, uncomfortably. "If I were Fabian I should hate to know there was a chance of meeting him every time I opened my door. Has he, perhaps, a passion for Fabian--or--" Instinctively she throws an additional touch of hauteur into her shapely head, and without deigning to notice the old man, sweeps by him, her glimmering white skirts making a gentle _frou-frou_ as she goes. When she has passed, the secretary raises his eyes and watches her departing form, furtively. There is great cunning mixed with malignity and resentment in his glance. He mutters something inaudible, that carries no blessing in its tone, but yet, as though fascinated by her beauty, he stands still and follows each step she takes upon the polished oaken flooring. As she stops at a particular door, his whole face changes, and satisfied malice takes the place of resentment. "Even such pride can stoop," he mutters, with a half-drunken chuckle. "And it is I, my fine lady--who can scarce breathe when I am by--that have power to ring your proud heart." He turns, and shambles onwards towards his own den. Portia's steps have grown slower as she gets nearer to the door before which Slyme has seen her stop. Her eyes have sought the ground; all along the floor her image may be seen, lengthened, but clear; almost with every step she seems to tread upon herself. As she reaches the door she hesitates, and then lifts her hand as if with the intention of knocking. But again she pauses, and her hand drops to her side. As if more nervous than she cares to own, she leans against the lintel of the door, as one might, desirous of support. Then the weakness vanishes; fastening her teeth upon her under lip, she rouses herself, and tapping gently but distinctly upon one of the panels, awaits an answer. Presently she gets it. "Come in," says Fabian's voice, clear, indifferent; and slowly turning the handle she enters the room. The lamps are alight; a fire is burning in the grate. At the upper table of this room, that is his study, his very _sanctum sanctorum_, Fabian is sitting with some papers and books before him. At first, being unconscious of who his visitor is, he does not lift his head, but now, seeing her, he rises quickly to his feet, and says, "You!" in accents of the most acute surprise.