” She fought to keep her teeth from chattering. But I can tell you who'll have the pleasure of hanging your father's son; and that's a person not a hundred miles distant from you at this moment—ha! ha!" As he said this, the door was opened, and Charcam entered, accompanied by a dwarfish, shabby-looking man, in a brown serge frock, with coarse Jewish features, and a long red beard. Joyous, she felt the need of physical expression; and her body began to sway sinuously, to glide and turn and twist about the room. It is the vapouring school girl. A lean young man in spectacles pursued her for some time, crying “Courage! Courage!” Somebody threw a dab of mud at her, and some of it got down her neck. Wanting his coat, when he must have known that the pockets were empty! But the effort to talk had cost him something. In her case the barrier was not selfishness but the perception that her interest would be misinterpreted, naturally. She was aware of people—her aunt, her father, her fellow-students, friends, and neighbors— moving about outside this glowing secret, very much as an actor is aware of the dim audience beyond the barrier of the footlights. And if the woman is not a rival, she must be—yes, that must be it. Then with an indescribable relief her feet were on the pavement, and she was being urged along by two policemen, who were gripping her wrists in an irresistible expert manner. He stood before her. "I told you I was not unprotected.
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