“You’ll find an electric heater in the bathroom, miss,” he added, more respectfully. She tried to wither him with a look, but it was unavailing. He even preceded her to her own door, turning the lights on and off as they went. A moment later, as she stood biting the end of her fingers in mingled vexation and anxiety, she could hear the sound of running water. She wondered, dreadingly, if she was never to get rid of the man. As she waited she let down her hair. The butler appeared with a steaming pitcher. He entered unsteadily, to her preoccupied “Come!” He looked at her over his shoulder as he put the steaming pitcher down, on her dresser. “A damned fine girl!” he said to himself, as he looked at her for a second time, and seemed loath to leave. In fact, months afterward, he dilated to the second cook on the wonder of that chestnut hair, which now fairly blanketed the girl’s head and shoulders. “Are you in pain, miss?” he asked anxiously, coming nearer to her. His attitude was cogent, and yet non-committal. “No,” she said icily, and then she added, more discreetly, “No—not much.” “Just—er—where does it seem to be?” he ventured, brazenly. She was silent now, distraught with mingled revulsion and anxiety. “Is it here, miss?” he persisted, with easy and masterful solicitude, reaching out as though to touch her with his intrepid and insolent hand. The woman drew back with a shudder, white to the very lips. This was the penalty, she told herself, for the ways she had fallen into! This was the possible degradation that even Durkin had been willing to lead her into! She fell back from him, and stood against the wall, struggling to calm herself. For the feeling swept over her that she must scream aloud, to rend and scatter what seemed the choking mists of a nightmare. Yet her masterful tormentor, misjudging the source of her emotion, still stood blinking at her soulfully. “Isn’t there anything I can do for you?” he wheedled, meltingly, yet militantly. It would have been laughable, under other circumstances, Frances tried to make herself believe—this solicitous tenderness of an unmannerly English butler, placidly extending to her the gallantries of the servants’ quarters. Now, she saw only the perils of the situation. “You can leave this room,” she said, steadily, in answer to his question. She saw the look of stolid revolt that swept over his face, and she could have wrung her hands, in the extremity of her fear. “Won’t you want anything fetched, later?” he still persecuted her. “Yes, yes,” she cried, desperately; “but not now!” “When?” he demanded, wagging his head, sagely. “_The later the better!_” she answered, slowly, with a final and desperate craftiness, pointing to the door.