ground. "Get out!" she screamed. "Get out, get out, get out!" She was close enough now that the poker would demolish him; she lifted it over her head and brought it down with all her might.
He didn't even flinch; he only raised his hands with a motion that seemed whimsically slow and clapped them together on the descending rod, stopping it dead over his head. For a moment he looked at her between his upraised arms, as if asking if she were finished.
"Get out of here!" Recklessly Leda yanked at the poker to wrestle it away from him, throwing her weight into his resistance. He gripped it. She gave a squeal of fury, trying to regain control, winning an inch and redoubling her effort.
Abruptly, he let go. She tumbled backward with the force of her own pull, landing with a painful jolt on her bruised hip. Somehow the poker had ended up in his hand instead of hers. She looked up at him standing quietly over her and curled herself into a ball sitting on the floor, weeping with mortification and fury.
"How could you? Oh, how
could
you? You're a beast�you don't deserve to be called a gentleman! You're a low, evil, wretched blackguard, and I'll have the police on you if you kill me for it! I shall! Don't you think I won't! Monster!" She put her face against her knees. "Go
away
! Go."
In the midst of her tirade, she became aware of Mrs.
Dawkins' voice outside. The door rattled. Leda lifted her head and froze.
"What is it?" the landlady barked through the barrier. "Who's in there with you?"
Mr. Gerard braced his hand on the sewing machine table and shifted. He lowered himself onto Leda's bed, pulling off his dark, loose coat to reveal a normal gentleman's white shirt. The coat fell over his feet in a casual tumble, hiding the strange footwear.
"Open up!" The lock shook. "You're not to have men visitors, Miss Etoile! Not on fourteen shillings the week! Open this door!" Before Leda could gather her wits, she heard a key in the lock. The door burst open.
In her nightcap and a garish red dressing gown, Mrs. Dawkins stopped and glared at Mr. Gerard, who had a hand at his shirt collar, as if he were just hastily buttoning the last button. Then she swung on Leda, her bulging baby-doll eyes blinking rapidly.
"Well, I
never, "
she exclaimed. "You little slut; butter wouldn't melt in your mouth, would it? Respectable, you said. A lady, you said. No followers, you said. I thought something smelt about the way you've taken to coming and going so sly-like, w' no basket! Been slippin' 'em up here secret-like, has you? I won't have it!" She grabbed the chemise that lay bundled on the washstand and dangled it, leaning toward Leda. "I won't be bilked of the takings by no artful little tramp—if you pick up men and bring them here, you give me my share. A fine piece of work, Lady Miss Trollop—" She tossed the underwear toward Leda and bustled over, scraping Leda's money off the bed into her palm. "We'll see about whether I put you out in the street or not for chousing me!"
"Oh, no! Please!" Leda gathered her underwear into a ball and held it to her chest. "Mrs. Dawkins, it isn't—"
But the landlady was no longer looking at her, nor counting the small pile of money in her palm. Her gaze was pinned to Mr. Gerard's hand as he turned it over and slid a folded note beneath his thumb.
Mrs. Dawkins bobbed forward, snatching the money from between his closed fingers. She glanced down, and her bulbous cheeks grew pink. "Indeed, sir!" Her whole manner became servile. "That's very kind of you, sir. Very kind, I'm sure. Would you like a refreshment brought up, sir? Something to break your fast? I can send down to the corner for bacon in a moment—"
"No," he said.
"Tea? Nor toast?" She tucked the note into the bosom of her dressing gown. "Very good, then! I'll be right away downstairs should you need anything." She sidled toward the door. "Miss has only to ask."
"Just give Miss Etoile back the money that is hers," he said coldly.
"Oh, to be
He didn't even flinch; he only raised his hands with a motion that seemed whimsically slow and clapped them together on the descending rod, stopping it dead over his head. For a moment he looked at her between his upraised arms, as if asking if she were finished.
"Get out of here!" Recklessly Leda yanked at the poker to wrestle it away from him, throwing her weight into his resistance. He gripped it. She gave a squeal of fury, trying to regain control, winning an inch and redoubling her effort.
Abruptly, he let go. She tumbled backward with the force of her own pull, landing with a painful jolt on her bruised hip. Somehow the poker had ended up in his hand instead of hers. She looked up at him standing quietly over her and curled herself into a ball sitting on the floor, weeping with mortification and fury.
"How could you? Oh, how
could
you? You're a beast�you don't deserve to be called a gentleman! You're a low, evil, wretched blackguard, and I'll have the police on you if you kill me for it! I shall! Don't you think I won't! Monster!" She put her face against her knees. "Go
away
! Go."
In the midst of her tirade, she became aware of Mrs.
Dawkins' voice outside. The door rattled. Leda lifted her head and froze.
"What is it?" the landlady barked through the barrier. "Who's in there with you?"
Mr. Gerard braced his hand on the sewing machine table and shifted. He lowered himself onto Leda's bed, pulling off his dark, loose coat to reveal a normal gentleman's white shirt. The coat fell over his feet in a casual tumble, hiding the strange footwear.
"Open up!" The lock shook. "You're not to have men visitors, Miss Etoile! Not on fourteen shillings the week! Open this door!" Before Leda could gather her wits, she heard a key in the lock. The door burst open.
In her nightcap and a garish red dressing gown, Mrs. Dawkins stopped and glared at Mr. Gerard, who had a hand at his shirt collar, as if he were just hastily buttoning the last button. Then she swung on Leda, her bulging baby-doll eyes blinking rapidly.
"Well, I
never, "
she exclaimed. "You little slut; butter wouldn't melt in your mouth, would it? Respectable, you said. A lady, you said. No followers, you said. I thought something smelt about the way you've taken to coming and going so sly-like, w' no basket! Been slippin' 'em up here secret-like, has you? I won't have it!" She grabbed the chemise that lay bundled on the washstand and dangled it, leaning toward Leda. "I won't be bilked of the takings by no artful little tramp—if you pick up men and bring them here, you give me my share. A fine piece of work, Lady Miss Trollop—" She tossed the underwear toward Leda and bustled over, scraping Leda's money off the bed into her palm. "We'll see about whether I put you out in the street or not for chousing me!"
"Oh, no! Please!" Leda gathered her underwear into a ball and held it to her chest. "Mrs. Dawkins, it isn't—"
But the landlady was no longer looking at her, nor counting the small pile of money in her palm. Her gaze was pinned to Mr. Gerard's hand as he turned it over and slid a folded note beneath his thumb.
Mrs. Dawkins bobbed forward, snatching the money from between his closed fingers. She glanced down, and her bulbous cheeks grew pink. "Indeed, sir!" Her whole manner became servile. "That's very kind of you, sir. Very kind, I'm sure. Would you like a refreshment brought up, sir? Something to break your fast? I can send down to the corner for bacon in a moment—"
"No," he said.
"Tea? Nor toast?" She tucked the note into the bosom of her dressing gown. "Very good, then! I'll be right away downstairs should you need anything." She sidled toward the door. "Miss has only to ask."
"Just give Miss Etoile back the money that is hers," he said coldly.
"Oh, to be
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