But, once more, that impression of the cripple returned to her. She half resented it. But she dismissed that feeling; the poor little creature could not be responsible for the notion. It was odd how clearly he was presented before her mind’s eye. She must have taken more exact note of him than she had supposed. Jim was the only one of the three who had undergone no outward alteration on his arrival on Saturn; the flame garments which she and Jack had assumed had not replaced, for him, the quaint, terrestrial jacket and trousers which he had worn in New York. Jim was too elementary in his simplicity to undergo change. And yet the soul of him, which was loyal, honest and affectionate, must be capable, like all true and loving souls of indefinite development. But he would always be Jim! Miriam smiled and sighed. Then she rose, with an impatient impulse, and returned to the bedroom.
Yonder was her dressing-table in the corner, with the cheval-glass standing beside it, inclined at the angle she had last given it. She walked up to it with a feminine curiosity, to see how she looked in Saturnian costume.
She was frankly startled when the reflection given back to her showed her to be wearing the same dove-colored flying-suit that was her usual dress when visiting the Long Island estate. The degree of pleasure which this gave her was perhaps not logically justifiable. It seemed to bring her real home nearer than had any of the other features of the production of her familiar surroundings—reproduction, illusion, or whatever it might be. Here she stood, as she was accustomed to see herself! It restored her self-possession. And she yielded to a genuine emotion of gratitude to Torpeon, whose foresight must have been something more than self-interested to inspire him to such a thought. It implied real interest in her.
“The creature does really care for me!” she said to herself. She seated herself in the chair before the dressing-table, and by the mere force of habit touched the bell-punch in the panel, by which she was wont to summon her personal maid, Jenny. Jenny was a New England girl, daughter of a farmer, who had been a chum of Terence Mayne before they emigrated to America. Old Mike, dying a widower in narrow circumstances, had left his daughter an orphan, and Terence, for old sake’s sake, had brought her to New York to be Miriam’s confidential attendant.
“Dear little Jenny!” murmured Miriam, as she sent the signal along the wire. “I wonder if she misses me! What kind of substitute will I get, do you suppose?”
The door leading into the servant’s quarters opened quietly, and a light step was audible approaching from behind; that was how Jenny used to come in, and the rhythm of the steps was like hers. In a moment Jenny herself stood before her mistress and dropped a curtsy with her warm Hibernian smile.
“Did you ring, miss?” The well remembered lilt of the Cork brogue—Jenny was born in Old Kinsale!
“Bring me a cup of tea, Jenny,” said Miriam. But this was mere reflex action, she had been too much amazed to express her amazement.
“Sure I will, miss, with pleasure,” Jenny relied; and turned briskly and walked out. There had been no illusion about it, no reproduction. Inanimate things might be imitated, but not a human being in flesh and blood.
Miriam had leisure before Jenny returned with the tea-things on the tray to recover her breath and to turn the matter over in her mind. But the only result of her reflections was an increased admiration for Torpeon: a being who could do this was not to be despised. It showed something more and better than control of hidden agencies; there was a grace, a delicacy, in the achievement—a manifestation of the heart—which carried still further the kindly sentiment which she had begun to feel for him, in spite of her resolve to bring his purposes to naught.