h her thoughts compel her to action, she walks aimlessly from
place to place; and now, as if she is listening for something to come;
and now, as if she is trying to make up her mind to take some step from
which she shrinks in secret.

At last, drawing her breath with a sudden quickness, born of
determination, she opens a drawer in a cabinet, and, taking from it a
little volume in the Tauchnitz binding, she opens the library door, and,
turning to the right, walks swiftly down the corridor.

From out the shadow a figure advances toward her, a figure bent and
uncomely, that tries in vain to avoid the meeting with her, and to get
out of sight before recognition sets in.

It is the old man Slyme. As she sees him there returns to Portia the
memory of many other times when she has met him here in this corridor,
with apparently no meaning for his presence. Some unaccountable and
utterly vague feeling of dislike for this man has been hers ever since
she first saw him. He is repugnant to her in a remarkable degree,
considering how little he has to do with her life in any way.

"He seems to haunt this part of the house," she says to herself now,
uncomfortably. "If I were Fabian I should hate to know there was a
chance of meeting him every time I opened my door. Has he, perhaps, a
passion for Fabian--or--"

Instinctively she throws an additional touch of hauteur into her shapely
head, and without deigning to notice the old man, sweeps by him, her
glimmering white skirts making a gentle _frou-frou_ as she goes.

When she has passed, the secretary raises his eyes and watches her
departing form, furtively. There is great cunning mixed with malignity
and resentment in his glance. He mutters something inaudible, that
carries no blessing in its tone, but yet, as though fascinated by her
beauty, he stands still and follows each step she takes upon the
polished oaken flooring.

As she stops at a particular door, his whole face changes, and satisfied
malice takes the place of resentment.

"Even such pride can stoop," he mutters, with a half-drunken chuckle.
"And it is I, my fine lady--who can scarce breathe when I am by--that
have power to ring your proud heart."

He turns, and shambles onwards towards his own den.

Portia's steps have grown slower as she gets nearer to the door before
which Slyme has seen her stop. Her eyes have sought the ground; all
along the floor her image may be seen, lengthened, but clear; almost
with eve