"I don’t know." He sat at his ease in the great chair, enjoying the meaning, the whole significance of her predicament. He had already appreciated its difficulties, its impossibilities, and he was prepared now to wring from every one of them its last sensation. Elizabeth, with her elbow on the arm of her chair, her laces falling away from her white forearm, bit her lip delicately. She seemed to be looking at the toe of her suede shoe. "Poor little thing!" She spoke abstractedly, as if she were oblivious to Marriott’s presence. He was satisfied; it was good just then to sit, merely, and look at her. "I must go to her." And then suddenly she looked up and said in another tone: "But how am I to do it, Gordon?" He did not answer at once and she did not wait for a reply, but went on, speaking rapidly, her eyes in a dark glow as her interest was intensified. "Isn’t it a peculiar situation? I don’t know how to deal with it. I never was so placed before. You must see the difficulties, Gordon. People, well, people don’t go to such places, don’t you know? I really don’t see how it is possible; it makes me shudder to think of it! Ugh!" She shrugged her shoulders. "What shall you say to her, Gordon?" She said this as if the problem were his, not hers, and showed a relief in this transfer of the responsibility. "I don’t know yet," he said. "Whatever you tell me." "But you must tell her something; you must make her understand. It won’t do for you to hurt the poor girl’s feelings." "Well, I’ll just say that I delivered her message and that you wouldn’t come." "Oh, Gordon! How could you be so cruel? You certainly would not be so heartless as to say I _wouldn’t_!" "Well, then, that you _couldn’t_." "But she would want a reason, and she’d be entitled to one. What one could you give her? You must think, Gordon, we must both think, and decide on something that will help you out. What are you laughing at?" "Why, Elizabeth," he said, "it isn’t my predicament. It’s your predicament." He leaned back in his chair comfortably, in an attitude of irresponsibility. "How can you sit there," Elizabeth said, "and leave it all to me?" And then she laughed,--and was grave again. "Of course," she said. "Well--I’m sure I can’t solve it. Poor little Gusta! She was so pretty and so good, and so--comfortable to have around--don’t you know? Really, we’ve never had a maid like her. She was ideal. And now to think of her--in prison! Isn’t it awful?" Marriott sat with half-closed eyes and looked at her through the haze of his lashes. The room was still; the fire burned slowly in the black chimney; now and then the oil gurgled cozily in the lamp. "What is a prison like, Gordon? Is it really such an awful place?" Marriott thought of the miserable room in the women’s quarters, with its iron wainscoting, the narrow iron bed; the wooden table and chair, and he contrasted it with this luxurious library of the Wards.