Eveline

door of my cab. He looked half starved.

'Have you a mother? How many brothers and sisters?'

'Six of us, lydy; muvver's out o' work.'

'Take that home as quick as you can.'

'Blimy! A thick 'un! There ain't no ruddy copper lookin' to pinch it off me! Muvver'll plant it away, so as 'ow favver won't have no cause to bash her for it.'

He had never been taught to say 'thank you.' He took one hasty glance in either direction and darted away in the throng.

I discharged the cab. I made quite sure I was not followed.

Meanwhile my most recent companion was, no doubt, speeding on towards Manchester where he said he must dine that evening with Mrs. Turner. I couldn't help but hope the good lady was reasonable with her spouse.

I drove home. I found Mrs. Lockett ready to receive me. It was yet morning. I lunched alone. John was radiant with happiness.

'No more chicken, thank you, John. How is Robin? There are some ginger nuts for him in a bag on the hall table. You see I did not forget him.'

'Thank you very much, miss. It's been very dull since you went away. Mrs. Lockett ain't very lively company. As for Robin, miss, he's been as sulky as possible; the poor thing is left quite alone. In the mornings he comes up the bedclothes and he stares me in the face, miss, as much as to ask where you've gone to. I'm ashamed to look at him.'

'Poor dear! Why, John, how shocking! It's quite stiff now!'

I had only just tapped it with my fingertips through the red plush breeches. The unruly monster was already stretching itself down his plump thigh as its owner leaned forward to pour me out a glass of wine. The door was shut. I let fly a button. My hand passed inside.

'Oh, John! It's shameful! It's bigger than ever!'

I gave a twist of the wrist. His fat member sprang out into view. I squeezed it as I examined the rubicund top.

What a beauty it was! The true perfection of what such things ought to be. I pulled down the skin. I delighted to see the effect of my touches.

'He likes that, John, doesn't he? He seems to enjoy being stroked just like a tame cat.'

'Yes, miss-puts up his back for it. You can almost hear him purr.'

'You must not let him get too much excited. We will keep all that for tonight, John. I think we must let him out then, but you cannot be too cautious. Mrs. Lockett sleeps in the wing, doesn't she?'

'Yes, miss. She always turns the key of the door on the landing. A fine scraping it makes too when she locks it at night. The maid sleeps on the top floor. There is no one on your floor now, miss.'

I made my arrangements. I finished my lunch. I dressed myself very plainly to go out. John called a cab. I drove straight to my bootmaker in Great Castle Street. Monsieur Dalmaine was not an ordinary bootmaker. He was an artist in boots. He only made for ladies, and his terms would be considered extravagant by the ordinary customer. His shop was small and unpretentious. Personally he was stout, short, and fair for a Frenchman. He might have been some eight and thirty. His wife kept the accounts and assisted him to collect them. His boots and shoes were not ordinary either. They were the perfection of his art. He took a real pride in them. The assiduity of the poor man to turn out boots to my satisfaction-and what appeared to be even of more importance, to his own- was sufficiently apparent. He was in the shop when I entered. Madame Dalmaine was out collecting accounts as usual of a Monday.

'Good morning, Monsieur Dalmaine. Are my boots, couleur creme, ready? Have you completed the slight alterations to the bleu pale lace boots?'

'Both are at your service now, miss. I will try them on if you will step into the showroom.'

There was a small well-arranged room behind the shop with several glass cases. In these were deposited boots which had been made for celebrities. They were by no means old or worn, but this extraordinary man had obtained them from the ladies in question after they had only served on a single occasion. Monsieur Dalmaine persisted that they did not please him. He thereupon supplied a second pair. He retained the first for his musee-as he called it.

I sat myself in the easy chair in which he fitted all his lady customers. It was a great event if he made a pair of boots in a fortnight. He had, however, prepared mine considerably within that period. He brought out both pairs. He held them up. He turned them about. His keen little gray eyes sparkled with evident delight.

'Les voila, mademoiselle! But they are superb! It is not often that I make for so beautiful a foot. Mon Dieu! One would say the foot of mademoiselle had been sculptured by Canova himself. It is a study.'

He knelt before me. He placed my foot in its openwork silk stocking upon his knee. He gave one affectionate look at this object. He cast another at his work. He then proceeded to fit the artistic little boot in its place. Several times he inserted my foot. As often he withdrew the boot for some trifling adjustment. I tired of his minuteness. I amused myself in worrying the good man by avoiding his grasp. Sometimes I slipped my glassy, silk-covered little foot on one side-sometimes on the other. At last it slid from the approaching boot and was jerked between his thighs. There it alighted on the muscular development of Monsieur Dalmaine's most private personal effects. I distinctly felt a something pulsate beneath my toes. The artist in ladies' boots flushed. He was arranging the lace of the new chaussure.

'Please give it to me, Monsieur Dalmaine. I have not yet examined it myself. Is not the toe a little more pointed than usual? You know I do not wear those hideously impossible toes to my boots.'

He handed it up, holding my ankle as he did so. I rubbed my wicked foot a little very gently against his person as I took it from his hand. At the same time, the man must have seen the half-comical, half-lecherous glance with which I met his eye. A sudden inspiration almost overwhelmed me. This artist cordonnier was a victim to his own creations!

He had fallen in love with his own work, like Pygmalion with his statue. The discovery set me on fire at once. What joy to play on this man's weakness! I allowed him to fit on the boot. He smoothed down the yielding kid as it glistened with its soft sheen on my foot, the perfection of chaussage-the delicate leg which attracted so many followers. His eyes followed his nervous fingers. His lips moved as though he longed, yet dared not extend his too- evident fascination into an actual embrace. I pushed my toe again towards his person. The quick blood of the nervous Frenchman was evidently stirred. There was an unmistakable enlargement in the region of his trouble. My warm foot did not let it subside. I was conscious of a certain throbbing against the sole of my foot.

'How long have you been in business? Monsieur Dalmaine, you have evidently a passion for your art. You are not like the ordinary shoemaker.'

'No, mademoiselle, I am not so. I am a man different. I am one man by myself. No other man understands me. Sometimes a lady, she comes to me. I make the boots for her. I fit them to her. She like my work-she come again. More work-more boots. But-oh, no! She comprehends not. She knows not my heart!'

Monsieur Dalmaine pressed his hand upon the article in question- or as near to it as he could get. He bowed his head with its light curly hair over my legs as he knelt in the pursuits of his calling. His air was patient-if not pathetic. It seemed to say, 'I suffer-I am content to suffer.'

'What is the matter with your heart then? Is it so very susceptible? Or is it really a matter for a physician?'

'Ah, mademoiselle, can you ask? Can you doubt?'

My active toes were tickling gently all the time between his legs, where something very like a cucumber had gradually developed itself within the fold of his clothing.

'I am afraid your art is too much for you. You are too much engrossed with fitting the ladies. Why not work for the men?'

'The men? Me! Dalmaine make boots for the beasts? I am not a marechal-ferrant! What you call him? Farrier? I do not make shoes for the horses! Mon Dieu! What I no longer make the chaussures des dames I die! I go dead! I inspire-direct!'

In the agony of his desolation, good Monsieur Dalmaine had seized my foot and ankle in his nervous grasp. He even emphasized his anguish by raising my leg so that a portion of my calf was visible. I laughed so heartily that his confusion became even greater. Raising my other foot, I almost pushed him backwards in my assumed