I leave him squinting at a page of text. I walk very quietly, in soft-soled shoes. I go to my rooms, where Agnes is.
I find her at work at a piece of sewing. She sees me come, and flinches. Do you know how provoking such a flinch will seem, to a temperament like mine? I stand and watch her sew. She feels my gaze, and begins to shake. Her stitches grow long and crooked. At last I take the needle from her hand and gently put the point of it against her flesh; then draw it off; then put it back; then do this, six or seven times more, until her knuckles are marked between the freckles with a rash of needle-pricks.
''There are to be gentlemen here tonight,'' I say, as I do it. ''One a stranger. Do you suppose he will be young, and handsome?''
I say it—idly enough—as a way of teasing. It is nothing to me. But she hears me, and colours.
''I can''t say, miss,'' she answers, blinking and turning her head; not drawing her hand away, however. ''Perhaps.''
''You think so?''
''Who knows? He might be.''
I study her harder, struck with a new idea.
''Should you like it if he was?''
''Like it, miss?''∮思∮兔∮網∮文∮檔∮共∮享∮與∮在∮線∮閱∮讀∮
''Like it, Agnes. It seems to me now, that you would. Shall I tell him the way to your room? I shan''t listen at the door. I shall turn the key, you will be quite private.''