Essex was out of temper himself. When Mrs. Willers interrupted him he had been thinking over the situation with Mariposa, and it had seemed to him very cheerless. His remark was well calculated to enrage the leading spirit of the woman’s page, who was as proud of her weekly contributions as though they had been inspired by the genius of George Eliot. “Well,” she said, and her rouge became quite unnecessary in the flood of natural color that rose to her face, “if I was going to tackle that subject I think you’d be about the best person to come to for information. For if you ever have had anything to do with crowned heads it’s been as their bootblack.” Essex was startled by the stinging malice revealed in this remark. He swung round on his swivel chair and sat facing his antagonist, making no attempt to rise, although she entered the room. As he saw her face in the light of the window he realized that, for the first time, he saw the woman stirred out of her carefully acquired professional calm. As she entered she pushed the door to behind her, and, taking the chair beside the desk, sat down. “Mr. Essex,” she said, “I want a word with you.” “Any number,” he answered with ironical politeness. “Do you wish the history of my connection with the crowned heads as court bootblack?” “No,” she said. “I want to know what business you’ve got to go to Mrs. Garcia’s boarding-house and frighten one of the ladies living there?” An instantaneous change passed over Essex’s face. His eyes seemed suddenly to grow veiled as they narrowed to a cold, non-committal slit. His mouth hardened. Mrs. Willers saw the muscles of his cheeks tighten. “Really,” he said, “this sudden interest in me is quite flattering. I hardly know what to say.” He spoke to gain time, for he was amazed and enraged. Mariposa had evidently made a confidante of Mrs. Willers, and he knew that Mrs. Willers was high in favor with Winslow Shackleton and his mother. “In this country, Mr. Essex,” Mrs. Willers went on, clenching her hands in her lap, for they trembled with her indignation, “men don’t scare and browbeat young women who don’t happen to have the good taste to favor them. When a man gets the mitten he knows enough to get out.” “Very clever of him, no doubt,” he murmured with unshaken suavity. “If you’re going to live here you’ve got to live by our laws. You’ve got to do as the Romans do. And take my word for it, young man, the Romans don’t approve of nagging and scaring a woman into marriage.”