nto the fire.

The patient spoke:

"_Eh bi'n, Miche_?" Her look was severe, but less aggressive. The
shuffle of the old negress's feet was heard and she appeared bearing
warm and cold water and fresh bandages; after depositing them
she tarried.

"Your fever is gone," said Frowenfeld, standing by the bed. He had laid
his fingers on her wrist. She brushed them off and once more turned full
upon him the cold hostility of her passionate eyes.

The apothecary, instead of blushing, turned pale.

"You--" he was going to say, "You insult me;" but his lips came tightly
together. Two big cords appeared between his brows, and his blue eyes
spoke for him. Then, as the returning blood rushed even to his forehead,
he said, speaking his words one by one;

"Please understand that you must trust me."

She may not have understood his English, but she comprehended,
nevertheless. She looked up fixedly for a moment, then passively closed
her eyes. Then she turned, and Frowenfeld put out one strong arm, helped
her to a sitting posture on the side of the bed and drew the shawl
about her.

"Zizi," she said, and the negress, who had stood perfectly still since
depositing the water and bandages, came forward and proceeded to bare
the philosophe's superb shoulder. As Frowenfeld again put forward his
hand, she lifted her own as if to prevent him, but he kindly and firmly
put it away and addressed himself with silent diligence to his task; and
by the time he had finished, his womanly touch, his commanding
gentleness, his easy despatch, had inspired Palmyre not only with a
sense of safety, comfort, and repose, but with a pleased wonder.

This woman had stood all her life with dagger drawn, on the defensive
against what certainly was to her an unmerciful world. With possibly
one exception, the man now before her was the only one she had ever
encountered whose speech and gesture were clearly keyed to that profound
respect which is woman's first, foundation claim on man. And yet, by
inexorable decree, she belonged to what we used to call "the happiest
people under the sun." We ought to stop saying that.

So far as Palmyre knew, the entire masculine wing of the mighty and
exalted race, three-fourths of whose blood bequeathed her none of its
prerogatives, regarded her as legitimate prey. The man before her did
not. There lay the fundamental difference that, in her sight, as soon as
she discovered it, glorified him. Before this assurance the c