life has made of you, he said to me, that first night. And then: I think you are half a villain already. He was right. If I never knew that villainy before—or if, knowing it, I never named it—I know it, name it, now.
I know it, when he comes each day to my room, raises my hand to his mouth, touches his lips to my knuckles, rolls his cold, blue, devilish eyes. If Agnes sees, she does not understand. She thinks it gallantry. It is gallantry!—The gallantry of rogues. She will watch while we put out paper, leads and paints. She will see him take his place at my side, guide my fingers in the making of curves and crooked lines. He will drop his voice. Men''s voices do badly in murmurs, as a rule—they break, they jar, they long to rise—but his can
fall, insinuate, and yet, like a musical note, stay clear; and while she sits and sews, half the length of a room away, he will take me, in secret, point by point across his scheme, until the scheme is perfect. ''Very good,'' he''ll say—like a proper drawing-master with an able girl. ''Very good. You learn quickly''
He will smile. He will straighten and put back his hair. He will look at Agnes and find her eyes on his. Her gaze will flutter away. ''Well, Agnes,'' he''ll say, marking her nervousness like a hunter marks his bird, ''what do you say to your mistress''s gifts as an artist?'' ''Oh, sir! I couldn''t hope to judge.''