There is something disarmingly winning about this woman. I think for the first time in my life I have met a siren. I pulled my shoulders from the grasp of her hands, as I felt myself pulling my spirit from the grasp of her attraction.
“I’ve not finished your dress,” I said.
She turned her back to me and gave a sigh.
“Go on, Cornelia, Mother of the Gracchi,” she said, and then added: “Are you the mother of anything?”
“No,” I answered.
“Too bad,” she murmured, “you ought to be.”
I didn’t reply to that. In the moment of silence the sound of feet on the stairs was audible. They came up the passage and began the ascent of the next flight. Miss Harris started.
“That’s my man, I guess,” she said quickly and tore herself from my hands.
She ran to the door and flung it open. I could see the man’s feet and legs half-way up the stairs.
“Jack,” she cried in a joyous voice, “I’m here, in Mrs. Drake’s room. Come down;” then to me: “It’s Mr. Masters. I’m going to the theater with him.”