ay, and Jenkins pleasant and cordial as usual.
Afterwards they went into the doctor's study, and suddenly, on the
couch, in the middle of an intimate and quite friendly conversation
about her father, his health, their work together, Felicia felt as it
were the chill of a gulf between herself and this man, then the brutal
grasp of a faun. She beheld an unknown Jenkins, wild-looking, stammering
with a besotted laugh and outraging hands. In the surprise, the
unexpectedness of this bestial attack, any other than Felicia--a child
of her own age, really innocent, would have been lost. As for her, poor
little thing! what saved her was her knowledge. She had heard so many
stories of this kind of thing at her father's table! and then art,
and the life of the studio--She was not an _ingenue_. In a moment she
understood the object of this grasp, struggled, sprang up, then, not
being strong enough, cried out. He was afraid, released his hold, and
suddenly she found herself standing up, free, with the man on his knees
weeping and begging forgiveness. He had yielded to a fit of madness.
She was so beautiful; he loved her so much. For months he had been
struggling. But now it was over, never again, oh, never again! Not
even would he so much as touch the hem of her dress. She made no reply,
trembled, put her hair and her clothes straight again with the fingers
of a woman demented. To go home--she wished to go home instantly, quite
alone. He sent a servant with her; and, quite low, as she was getting
into the carriage, whispered:

"Above all, not a word. It would kill your father."

He knew her so well, he was so sure of his power over her through that
suggestion, the blackguard! that he returned on the morrow looking
bright as ever and with loyal face as though nothing had happened. In
fact, she never spoke of the matter to her father, nor to any one. But,
dating from that day, a change came over her, a sudden development, as
it were, of her haughty ways. She was subject to caprices, wearinesses,
a curl of disgust in her smile, and sometimes quick fits of anger
against her father, a glance of contempt which reproached him for not
having known how to watch over her.

"What is the matter with her?" Ruys, her father, used to say; and
Jenkins, with the authority of a doctor, would put it down to her age
and some physical disturbance. He avoided speaking to the girl herself,
counting on time to efface the sinister impression, and not desp