She smiles. Smiling, she is almost handsome. Then the wake of grease grows thin, the water browns, her smile quite falls; and she looks like a thief again.
You must understand, I have determined to despise her. For how, otherwise, will I be able to do what I must do?—how else deceive and harm her? It is only that we are put so long together, in such seclusion. We are obliged to be intimate. And her notion of intimacy is not like Agnes''s—not like Barbara''s—not like any lady''s maid''s. She is too frank, too loose, too free. She yawns, she leans. She rubs at spots and grazes. She will sit picking over some old dry cut upon her knuckle, while I sew. Then, ''Got a pin, miss?'' she will ask me; and when I give her a needle from my case she will spend ten
minutes probing the skin of her hand with that. Then she will give the needle back to me.
But she will give it, taking care to keep the point from my soft fingers. ''Don''t hurt yourself,'' she will say—so simply, so kindly, I quite forget that she is only keep