that she
never heard coarse speech.--Who can she be--?

The music of her reading calmed me--how I wish we could be friends--!

"How old is Madame Bizot's grandchild?" I asked abruptly, interrupting.

"Six months," answered Miss Sharp without looking up.

"You like children?"

"Yes--."

"Perhaps you have brothers and sisters?"

"Yes--."

I knew that I was looking at her hungrily--and that she was purposely
keeping her lids lowered--.

"How many?"

"Two--."

The tone said, "I consider your questions impertinent--."

I went on--

"Brothers?"

"One brother."

"And a sister?"

"Yes."

"How old?"

"Eleven and thirteen."

"That is quite a gap between your ages then?"

She did not think it necessary to reply to this--there was the faintest
impatience in the way she moved the manuscript.

I was so afraid to annoy her further in case she should give me notice
to go, that I let her have her way, and returned to work.

But I was conscious of her presence--thrillingly conscious of her
presence all the morning. I never once was able to take the work
naturally, it was will alone which made me grind out the words.

There was no sign of nervousness in Miss Sharp's manner--I simply did
not exist for her--I was a bore, a selfish useless bore of an employer,
who was paying her twice as much as anyone else would, and she must in
return give the most perfect service. As a man I had no meaning. As a
wounded human being she had no pity for me--but I did not want her
pity--what did I want?--I cannot write it--I cannot face it--. Am I to
have a new torment in my life?--Desiring the unattainable?--Eating my
heart out; not that woman can never really love me again, but that, well
or ill, the consideration of _one_ woman is beyond my reach--.

Miss Sharp is not influenced because I am or am not a cripple--If I were
as I was when I first put on my grenadier's uniform, I should still not
exist for her probably--she can see the worthless creature that I
am--Need I always be so?--I wish to God I knew.

* * * * *

_Night._

She worked with her usual diligence the entire day almost, not taking
the least notice of me, until at five o'clock when my tea came I rang
for her--Perhaps it was the irritation reacting upon my sensitive
wrenched nerves, but I felt pretty rotten, my hands were damp--another
beastly unattractive thing, which as a rule does not happen to me--I
asked her to pour ou