cape. But I look at myself. ''Like this? Won''t you give me back my gown, my shoes?''
Perhaps I say it too keenly, however; or else my look has something of cunning, or desperation, in it. She hesitates, then says, ''That dusty old frock? Them boots? Why, that''s walking-gear. Look here, at this silken wrapper.'' She takes up the dressing-gown from the hook on the back of the door. ''Here''s what ladies wear, for their mornings at home. Here''s silken slippers, too. Shan''t you look well, in these? Slip ''em on, dear girl, and come down for your breakfast. No need to be shy. John Vroom don''t rise before twelve, there''s only me, and Gentleman—he''s seen you in a state of dishabilly, I suppose!—and Mr Ibbs. And him, dear girl, you might consider now in the light of—well, let''s say an uncle. Eh?''
I turn away. The room is hateful to me; but I will not go with her, undressed, down to that dark kitchen. She pleads and coaxes a little longer; then gives me up, and goes. The key turns in the lock.
I step at once to the box that holds my clothes, to try the lid. It is shut up tight, and is stout.
So then I go to the window, to push at the sashes. They will lift, by an inch or two, and the rusting nails that keep them shut I think might give, if I pushed harder. But then, the window frame is narrow, the drop is great; and I am still undressed. Worse than that, the street has people in it; and though at first I think to call to them—to break the glass, to signal and shriek—after a second I begin to look more closely at them, and I see their faces, their dusty clothes, the packets they carry, the children and dogs that run and tumble at their sides. There is life, said Richard, twelve hours ago. It