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“Come, Emily! don’t degrade yourself by appealing to that cruel, unjust, hard-hearted man. Don’t you see that he thinks it fine sport to trample upon helpless girls?”

“Come, none of that.”

The porter put his hand upon my shoulder. Before I knew it we were out of the office and half a dozen yards away. I turned upon him in a flame of passion.

“Take your hand from off my shoulder! If you dare to touch me again you’ll be sorry!”

He was not a bad sort. He seemed scared at the sight of me.

“I don’t want to do anything to you. Only what’s the good of making a fuss? You know he’s master here.”

“And, because he’s master here, I suppose, if he tells you to behave like a miserable coward, you would?”

“What’s the use of talking? If he says you’ve got to go, you’ve got to, and there’s an end of it. You take my advice, and don’t be silly.”

“Silly! Your advice! When I ask you for your advice, you give it, not before.”

I stood and glared. I do not think he altogether liked the look of me; I am sure that had he touched me I should have flown at him, and I rather suspect he knew it. While he hesitated I heard someone speaking in loud tones in the office from which we had just now been ejected. It was a man’s voice.