The feet descended and Mr. Masters came into view. He was the man Roger and I had seen in the passage.
He took Miss Harris’ proffered hand, then sent a look at me and my room that contained a subtle suggestion of rudeness, of bold and insolent intrusion. Before she could introduce us he bowed and said easily:
“Good evening, Mrs. Drake. Saw you the other night in the hall.”
I inclined my head very slightly. His manner and voice increased my original dislike. I felt that I could not talk to him and turned to Miss Harris. Something in her face struck me unpleasantly. Her look was bent upon him and her air of beaming upon the world in general was intensified by a sort of special beam—an enveloping, deeply glowing beam, such as mothers direct upon beloved children and women upon their lovers.
The door was open and Mr. Masters leaned upon the door-post.
“Nice little place you’ve got here,” he said. “Better than yours, Lizzie.”
Miss Harris withdrew her glance from him, it seemed to me with an effort, as if it clung upon him and she had to pluck it away.
“Finish me,” she said, turning abruptly to me, “I must go.”
All the especial glow for me was gone. Her eyes lit on mine vacant and unseeing. I suddenly seemed to have receded to a point on her horizon where I had no more personality than a dot on a map. I was not even a servant, simply a pair of hands that prepared her for her flight into the night with the vulgar and repulsive man. This made me hesitate, also I didn’t want to go on with the hooking while Mr. Masters leaned against the door-post with that impudently familiar air.
“If Mr. Masters will go into the passage,” I said.