So that when she had said, “Good evening, Mr. Byrne,” she continued at once her demure and unaffected descent. Cook would have turned and fled up the stairs, panting with modesty. So would many another domestic young person.

But Emily descended. If she had waited, or turned back up the stairs, or faltered, “Oh, sir ,” and scurried like a young hind away from him, there is no doubt that Stephen would have made himself scarce⁠—would have left the coast clear.

But she descended. When she came to the bottom of the stairs where Stephen was standing, there was hardly space for her to pass. Stephen made no move. He said fatuously, “Had a nice bath, Emily?” and he put one arm around her as she passed, lightly, almost timidly, just touching the back of Cook’s coat.