She got up after this speech and went to stand near the stove.  Not that she was cold—­the small room, which looked even smaller on account of its huge flaming furniture and the enormous roses on its carpet and wall-paper, was as hot as a furnace—­but because she was abashed by her own speech and by his curious reception of it.  The dark blood of his body had risen to his face; he had opened his eyes wide upon her, had sunk back again and begun to smoke with short, excited puffs.

Sheila thought that he was shocked and she was very close to tears.  She blinked at the stove and moved her fingers uncertainly.  “Nice girls,” she thought, “never want to go into saloons!”

Then Sylvester spoke.  “You’re a girl in a million, Miss Sheila!” he said.  His voice was more cracked than usual.  Sheila transferred her blinking, almost tearful look from the stove to him.  “You’re a heap too good for dish-washing,” said Sylvester.

For some reason the girl’s heart began to beat unevenly.  She had a feeling of excitement and suspense.  It was as if, after walking for many hours through a wood where there was a lurking presence of danger, she had heard a nearing step.  She kept her eyes upon Sylvester.  In his there was that mysterious look of appraisal, of vision.  He seemed nervous, rolled his cigar and moved his feet.

“Are you satisfied with your work, Miss Sheila?”

Sheila assembled her courage.  “I know you’ll think me a beast, Mr. Hudson, after all your kindness—­and it isn’t that I don’t like the work.  But I’ve a feeling—­no, it’s more than a feeling!—­I know that your wife doesn’t need me.  And I know she doesn’t want me.  She doesn’t like to have me here.  I’ve been unhappy about that ever since I came.  And it’s been getting worse.  Yesterday she said she couldn’t bear to have me whistling round her kitchen.  Mr. Hudson”—­Sheila’s voice broke childishly—­“I can’t help whistling.  It’s a habit.  I couldn’t work at all if I didn’t whistle.  I wouldn’t have told you, but since you asked me—­”

Sylvester held up his long hand.  Its emerald glittered.

“That’s all right,” he said.  “I wanted to learn the truth about it.  Perhaps you’ve noticed, Miss Sheila, that I’m not a very happy man at home.”

“You mean—?”

“I mean,” said Sylvester heavily—­“Momma.”

Sheila overcame a horrible inclination to laugh.

“I’m so sorry,” she said uncertainly.  She was acutely embarrassed, but did not know how to escape.  And she was sorry for him, for certainly it seemed to her that a man married to Momma had just cause for unhappiness.

“I ought to be ashamed of myself for bringing you here, Miss Sheila.  You see, that’s me.  I’m so all-fired soft-hearted that I just don’t think.  I’m all feelings.  My heart’s stronger than my head, as the palmists say.”  He rose and came over to Sheila; standing beside her and smiling so that the wrinkle stood out sharply across his unwilling lip.  “Did you ever go to one of those fellows?” he asked.