beaten, had terrified and
cowed. The old Violet would have come swinging up the path; she would
have pushed past him into the warm and lighted room; this one had come
creeping to his door. She took no step to which he did not himself
invite her.

"Come in here a minute," he said.

He put his hand upon her arm to guide her. He led her into the warm room
and drew up a chair for her before the fire.

"Sit down and get warm."

She shook her head; and by that sign he conceived the hope that she
would soon be gone. She looked after him as he went to the door of the
room to close it. When she heard the click of the latch her cough burst
out violently and ceased.

She crouched down by the hearth, holding out her hands to the blaze. He
stood against the chimney-piece, looking down at her, silent, not
knowing what he might be required to say.

She peeled off the wet gloves that were plastered to her skin; she drew
out the long pins from her hat, took it off, and gazed ruefully at the
lean plume lashed to its raking stem. With the coquetry of pathos, she
held it out to him.

"Look at me poor feather, Ranny," she said.

He shuddered as she spoke his name.

"You'd better take your shoes off, and that coat," he said.

She took them off. He set the shoes in the fender. He hung the coat over
the back of the chair to dry. As she stood upright the damp streamed
from her skirts and drifted toward the fire.

"How about that skirt?"

"I could slip it off, and me stockings, too, if you didn't mind."

"All right," he muttered, and turned from her. He could hear the
delicate silken swish of her draperies as they slid from her to the
floor.

She was slenderer than ever in the short satin petticoat that was her
inner sheath. Her naked feet, spread to the floor, showed white but
unshapely. She stood there like some beautiful flower rising superbly
from two ugly, livid, and distorted roots.

But neither her beauty nor her ugliness could touch him now.

"Look here," he said, "I'll get you some dry things."

His mind was dulled by the shock of seeing her, so that it was unable to
attach any real importance or significance to her return. He knew her to
be both callous and capricious; therefore, he told himself that there
was no need to take her seriously now. The thing was to get rid of her
as soon as possible. He smothered the instinct that had warned him of
his danger, and persuaded himself that dry things would meet the
triv