he woman's words were anonymous.

'But what _do_ you think, Mary,' she asked.

'Oh, I think you're quite right, mum,' said Mary.

Victoria watched her face in the glass. Not a wave of opinion rippled
over it.

Victoria got up. She stretched out her arms for Mary to slip the skirt
over her head. The maid closed the lace blouse, quickly clipped the
fasteners together, then closed the placket hole completely. Without a
word she fetched the light grey coat, slipped it on Victoria's
shoulders. She found the grey skin bag, while Victoria put on her white
fox toque. She then encased Victoria's head in a grey silk veil and
sprayed her with scent. Victoria looked at herself in the glass. She was
very lovely, she thought.

'Anything else, mum,' said Mary's quiet voice.

'No, Mary, nothing else.'

'Thank you, mum.'

As Victoria turned, she found the maid had disappeared, but her
watchful presence was by the front door to open it for her. Victoria saw
her from the stairs, a short erect figure, with a pale face framed in
dark hair. She stood with one hand on the latch, the other holding a cab
whistle; her eyes were fixed upon the ground. As Victoria passed out she
looked at Mary. The girl's eyes were averted still, her face without a
question. Upon her left hand she wore a thin gold ring with a single red
stone. The ring fastened on Victoria's imagination as she stepped into a
hansom which was loafing near the door. It was not the custom, she knew,
for a maid to wear a ring; and this alone was enough to amaze her. Was
it possible that Mary's armour was not perfect in every point of
servility? No doubt she had just put it on as it was her evening out and
she would be leaving the house in another half hour. And then? Would
another and a stronger hand take hers, hold it, twine its fingers among
her fingers. Victoria wondered, for the vision of love and Mary were
incongruous ideas. It was almost inconceivable that with her cap and
apron she doffed the mantle of her reserve; she surely could not
vibrate; her heart could not beat in unison with another. Yet, there was
the ring, the promise of passion. Victoria nursed for a moment the
vision of the two spectral figures, walking in a dusky park, arms round
waists, then of shapes blended on a seat, faces hidden, lip to lip.

Victoria threw herself back in the cab. What did it all matter after
all? Mary was the beast of burden which she had captured by piracy. She
had been her equa