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Man and Maid

Page 31

"Er--would you read me aloud the last chapter we finished"--I barked at

last lamely.

She turned to fetch the script from the other room--.

I must apologize to her, I knew.

She came back and sat down stiffly, prepared to begin.

"I am sorry I was such an uncouth brute yesterday," I said--"It was good

of you to come back--. Will you forgive me?"

She bowed again. I almost hated her at that moment, she was making me

feel so much--A foolish arrogance rose in me-"We had better get to work I suppose," I went on pettishly.

She began to read--how soft her voice is, and how perfectly

cultivated.--Her family must be very refined gentlefolk--ordinary

English typists have not that indescribable distinction of tone.

What voices mean to one!--The delight of that exquisite sound of

refinement in the pronunciation. Miss Sharp never misplaces an

inflection or slurs a word, she never uses slang, and yet there is

nothing pedantic in her selection of language--it is just as if her

habitual associates were all of the same class as herself, and that she

never heard coarse speech.--Who can she be--?

The music of her reading calmed me--how I wish we could be friends--!

"How old is Madame Bizot's grandchild?" I asked abruptly, interrupting.

"Six months," answered Miss Sharp without looking up.

"You like children?"

"Yes--."

"Perhaps you have brothers and sisters?"

"Yes--."

I knew that I was looking at her hungrily--and that she was purposely

keeping her lids lowered--.

"How many?"

"Two--."

The tone said, "I consider your questions impertinent--."

I went on-"Brothers?"

"One brother."

"And a sister?"

"Yes."

"How old?"

"Eleven and thirteen."

"That is quite a gap between your ages then?"

She did not think it necessary to reply to this--there was the faintest

impatience in the way she moved the manuscript.

I was so afraid to annoy her further in case she should give me notice

to go, that I let her have her way, and returned to work.

But I was conscious of her presence--thrillingly conscious of her

presence all the morning. I never once was able to take the work

naturally, it was will alone which made me grind out the words.

There was no sign of nervousness in Miss Sharp's manner--I simply did

not exist for her--I was a bore, a selfish useless bore of an employer,

who was paying her twice as much as anyone else would, and she must in

return give the most perfect service. As a man I had no meaning. As a

wounded human being she had no pity for me--but I did not want her

pity--what did I want?--I cannot write it--I cannot face it--. Am I to

have a new torment in my life?--Desiring the unattainable?--Eating my

heart out; not that woman can never really love me again, but that, well

or ill, the consideration of one woman is beyond my reach--.

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