“Yes, sir; my poor little savings were nearly at an end!” Could he resist that pathetic picture of the orphan’s little savings—framed, as it were, in a delicately-designed reference to her fellow-servant in the story? “I was as poor as Pamela,” she suggested softly.
“And as virtuous,” Benjulia added.
The cook’s eloquent eyes said, “Thank you, sir.”
He laid down his pipe. That was a good sign, surely? He drew his chair nearer to her. Better and better! His arm was long enough, in the new position, to reach her waist. Her waist was ready for him.
“You have nothing in particular to do, this afternoon; and I have nothing particular to do.” He delivered himself of this assertion rather abruptly. At the same time, it was one of those promising statements which pave the way for anything. He might say, “Having nothing particular to do to-day—why shouldn’t we make love?” Or he might say, “Having nothing particular to do to-morrow—why shouldn’t we get the marriage license?” Would he put it in that way? No: he made a proposal of quite another kind. He said, “You seem to be fond of stories. Suppose I tell you a story?”
Perhaps, there was some hidden meaning in this. There was unquestionably a sudden alteration in his look and manner; the cook asked herself what it meant.
If she had seen the doctor at his secret work in the laboratory, the change in him might have put her on her guard. He was now looking (experimentally) at the inferior creature seated before him in the chair, as he looked (experimentally) at the other inferior creatures stretched under him on the table.
His story began in the innocent, old-fashioned way.
“Once upon a time, there was a master and there was a maid. We will call the master by the first letter of the alphabet—Mr. A. And we will call the maid by the second letter—Miss B.”
The cook drew a long breath of relief. There was a hidden meaning in the doctor’s story. The unfortunate woman thought to herself, “I have not only got fine hair and a beautiful complexion; I am clever as well!” On her rare evenings of liberty, she sometimes gratified another highly creditable taste, besides the taste for reading novels. She was an eager play-goer. That notable figure in the drama—the man who tells his own story, under pretence of telling the story of another person—was no unfamiliar figure in her stage experience. Her encouraging smile made its modest appearance once more. In the very beginning of her master’s story, she saw already the happy end.