He broke off at the sound of a knock on the door. In some big houses servants weren’t supposed to knock; so Linda had read. But Gordon insisted on his privacy. She watched, in the mirror, as the door of that other room opened, and the reflected image of her maid, Anna, sidled in. The girl looked even sillier in the glass. She was a silly-looking creature at best, with her teased blond wig and adenoidal, half-witted gape; and the mirror distorted her face as it warped every other object it reflected. The sidelong glance she gave Gordon had a sly, conspiratorial gleam. Of course, she had a crush on him; all the women in the house had, from the fat Bavarian cook to the gardener’s ten-year-old daughter.

Even in the foul mirror Gordon’s face remained unchanged. She couldn’t accuse him of leering at the maids. But he had better taste than that. Anna’s figure was good, and was adequately displayed; Gordon insisted on uniforms, but he went along, good-humoredly, with the shorter skirts, and Anna’s black dress verged on a musical-comedy maid’s outfit. She had good legs. But that staring, vacant face…

Linda whirled around.

“I don’t want you,” she said. “Get out.”

“Now, honey.” Gordon rose; coming up behind her, he lifted the heavy masses of her black hair between his hands. “Let the poor girl fix your hair, at any rate. I told you, I want you to look beautiful. Anna, Mrs. Randolph will wear that gold thing-I don’t know what you women call it-”

“The Persian brocade hostess gown,” Anna said promptly. “If you mean the dress you bought last week, Mr. Randolph.”

“That’s the one. Hostess gown? You’re right; that’s what the salesgirl called it.” He grinned at Anna, who, without moving a muscle, managed to suggest a puppy wriggling happily at a caress. “Well, I’ll get out of the way and leave you to it.”

Linda wiped off the crooked outline on her upper lip and sat with lipstick poised, watching Anna trot over to the long closet and take out the dress.