She bent her gaze down upon him as if she hardly heard; beneath the bright adornment of tints, the lovely face—­it was a very proud face—­had become icy cold; the violet eyes were hard as shining crystal.  To Mr. Heatherbloom that slender figure, tensely poised, seemed at once overwhelmingly near and inexpressibly remote.  He started to lean on an iron picket but changed his mind and stood rather too stiffly, without support.  Before his eyes the flowers in her hat waved and waved; he tried to keep his eyes on them.

“I had been intending,” he observed in tones he endeavored to make light, “to tell Miss Van Rolsen she must find some one else to take my place.  It would not be very difficult.  It is not a position that requires a trained man.”

“Difficult?” She seemed to have difficulty in speaking the word; her cold eyes suddenly lighted with unutterable scorn.  If any one in this world ever experienced thorough disdain for any one else, her expression implied it was she that experienced it for him.  “Valet for dogs!”

Mr. Heatherbloom flushed.  “They are very nice dogs,” he murmured.  “Indeed, they are exceptional.”

She gave an abrupt, frozen little laugh; then bent down her face slightly.  “And do you wash and curl and perfume them?” she asked, her small white teeth setting tightly after she spoke.

“Well, I don’t perfume them,” answered Mr. Heatherbloom.  “Miss Van Rolsen attends to that herself.  She knows the particular essences better than I.”  A slightly strained smile struggled about his lips.  “You see Beauty has one kind, and Naughty another.  At least, I think so.  While Sardanapolis isn’t given any at all.”

Can violet eyes shine fiercely?  Hers certainly seemed to.  “How,” she said, examining him as one would study something very remote and impersonal, “did my aunt happen to employ—­you?  I know she is very particular—­about recommendations.  What ones did you have?  Were they forged ones,” suddenly, “or stolen ones?” The red lips like rosebuds had become straightly drawn now.

“No,” answered Mr. Heatherbloom.  “I didn’t have any.  I just came, and—­”

“Saw and conquered!” said the girl.  But there was no levity in her tone.  She continued to gaze at him and yet through him; at something beyond—­afar—­“I don’t understand why she should have taken you—­”

“Shall I explain?”

“And I don’t care why she did!” Not noticing his interruption.  “The principal thing is, why did you want this position?  What ulterior motive lay behind?” She was speaking now almost automatically, as if he were not present.  “For, of course, there was some other motive.”

“The truth is,” observed Mr. Heatherbloom lightly, but passing an uncertain hand over his brow, “I had reached that point—­I should qualify by saying I have long been at the point where one is willing to take any ‘honest work of any kind’.  I suppose you have heard the phrase before; it’s a common one.  But believe me, it was quite by accident I came here; quite!”