look of terror on her face. It is not yet ten o''clock. ''I am perfectly well,'' I say. ''You must not trouble. I am only tired, suddenly. I am sorry.''
''Sorry? Pooh!'' says Mr Hawtrey. ''It is we who should be sorry. Mr Lilly, you are a tyrant, and overtask your niece most miserably.
I always said it, and here is the proof. Agnes, take your mistress''s arm. Go steadily, now.''
''Shall you manage the stairs?'' Mr Huss asks anxiously. He stands in the hall as we prepare to mount them. Behind him I see Mr Rivers; but I do not catch his eye.
When the drawing-room door is closed I push Agnes away, and in my own room I look about me for some cool thing to put upon my face. I finally go to the mantel, and lean my cheek against the looking-glass.
''Your skirts, miss!'' says Agnes. She draws them from the fire.
I feel queer, dislocated. The house clock has not chimed. When it sounds, I will feel better. I will not think of Mr Rivers—of what he must know of me, how he might know it, what he means by seeking me out. Agnes stands awkwardly, half-crouched, my skirts still gathered in her hands.
The clock strikes. I step back, then let her undress me. My heart beats a little smoother. She puts me in my bed, unlooses the curtains—now the night might be any night, any at all. I hear her in her own room, unfastening her gown: if I lift my head and look through the gap in my curtains I will see her upon her knees with her eyes hard shut, her hands pressed together like a child''s, her lips moving. She prays every night to be taken home; and for safety as she slumbers.