I liked you better,'' he says, ''when you was a chair.''
I am sure he says that. The words bewilder me, and I shrink away. I twist to look at Richard. ''Please, Richard,'' I say. ''For God''s sake, isn''t it enough to have tricked me? How can you stand so coolly while they torment me?''
He holds my gaze, stroking his beard. Then he says to the woman: ''Haven''t you a quieter place, for her to sit in?''
''A quieter place?'' she answers. ''Why, I have a room made ready. I only supposed Miss Lilly should like to warm her face first down here. Should you like to come up, dear, now? Make your hair neat? Wash your hands?''
''I should like to be shown to the street, and a hackney,'' I answer. ''Only that, only that.''
''Well, we shall put you at the window; and you shall see the street from there. Come up, my darling. Let me take that old bag.— Want to keep it? All right. Ain''t your grip a strong one! Gentleman, you come along, too, why don''t you? You''ll take your old room, at the top?''
''I will,'' he answers, ''if you''ll have me. For the wait.''
They exchange a glance. She has put her hands upon me and, in drawing from her grasp, I have risen. Richard comes and stands close. I shrink from him, too, and between them—as a pair of dogs might menace a sheep into a pen—they guide me from the kitchen, through one of the doors, towards a staircase. Here it is darker and cooler, and I feel the draught perhaps of a street-door, and slow my steps; but I think, too, of what the woman has said, about the window: I imagine I might call from it, or drop from it—or fling myself from it—should they try to hurt me. The staircase is narrow, and bare of carpet; here and there, on the steps, are chipped china cups half-filled with water, holding floating wicks, casting shadows.