Chapter Three
“YOU HEARD NONE OF THAT! You understand? If you want to keep the clerk's job, you will also keep your mouth shut!” Reed practically screamed in James' ear.
Nodding, James replied, “Of course. What in the hell was that, though? Not many women out there made of whatever Miss Stone has in her.”
“And thank God for that, right?” Reed added, reaching inside his breast pocket for a small flask. Greedily, he sucked down four large gulps, washed the top with a handkerchief, then tucked the ensemble back into his coat.
“That damn family,” he continued. “I can't say I don't feel sorry for the lot of them. The only one with any sense was her grandfather. John Stone has spent the past decade trying to put Lilith in a madhouse so he can keep her under his thumb and get the fortune she stands to receive. Her mother spends all her time trying different cures for their idiot twelve year old and falling prey to the snake oil salesmen who call themselves 'doctors.' She also claims to have some sort of ague that won't go away, but she always has headaches and pains and random blindness. Maybe I would, too, if I were married to that,” Reed snorted, yanking his thumb back toward the Stone mansion.
“What about Miss Stone? She's one hard woman.”
Reed shook his head and reached again for his flask, hands still shaking. “Ayuh, she is. I've known her for a few years now, just from parties.” A sideways glance at James. “She's a cold one. If she were a man, she'd be her father. That's the part she doesn't seem to understand. Or maybe the problem is that he does. He's done everything you can imagine to get her in McLean or some other mental ward. She's one of those free love people, believing in equality for women and that no one should ever marry. Makes Stone so angry.” Reed's voice tapered off, as if he realized he'd said too much. But he reconsidered and continued:
“He succeeded. Once. When Lilith was sixteen or so. Had her committed to McLean. They...did things to her. No one really knows. Something about using electricity on body parts. Others say they filled her with pills all day to make her dull. Some say she was bound hand and foot to a wall. The gossips claim that they did things to her, you know –” Reed gestured to his groin. “Things that made her hard. She was always a big mouth then.”
“Who isn't? Aren't we all when we're sixteen? We think we know everything,” James laughed.
Reed's skeptical look shut James up. The two walked in silence for a few blocks, dodging stagnant water in ditches and fresh horse dung. Construction teams pulled wood and piping toward the river for some never-ending project that seemed to go on in some sector of the city. The fresh dung appeared in piles everywhere, making foot traffic a child's game of hopscotch.
Finally, Reed resumed, his face pensive. “Yeah, somewhat. But we don't all have daddies who can put us in the nuthouse for a few months to calm us down and make us obey. What Stone didn't understand was that all he did was make her more angry. You don't work a hornet into a frenzy and then let it go.”
James took it all in. The walk was helping his body to regulate. That woman had set his senses on full buzz, like a firehouse on a kerosene factory fire alert. Every bell and whistle in his mind and lower extremities went flush and hardened. Again. He'd felt like a schoolboy in that office, watching Lilith engage and defend herself.
What he'd expected to feel, the moment he walked into that office, was some sort of sympathy or chivalry for the woman. Years of living in South Boston meant he knew exactly who the Stones were, and Lilith had a reputation for being a modern woman who was a bit mentally brittle. When Reed asked him to scribe for the session he'd groaned inside, thinking the morning would be wasted with a preening heiress and her daddy. Instead, he got more.
Much more.
The erection faded as they walked, yet the flushed feeling remained. Miss Stone was unfinished business for him, an untamed heiress with whom he had no right to converse. As lingering as the ink stains on his hands and clothes. He hoped she wouldn't fade over time, yet he knew he had no chance. What could a billionaire's daughter want with a Southie bootstrapper? In society, he was no better than the horse dung he and Reed avoided.
A few more months and that would change. If his plan worked.
Deep in his own thoughts, James missed part of a sentence that Reed muttered. “What's that?” he asked.
“I said,” Reed cleared his throat, irritation and condescension quite clear, “that you need to understand that the wealthy aren't like you. Or even me.” He looked James up and down, unimpressed by the shabby woolen suit and the too-worn shoes that no shining ever helped.
“John Stone is different. He's not quite human. None of the families who own mansions up there,” he nodded back toward Boston Common as they approached Newbury Street, “really are. They think they are better than anyone else, and frankly, they are. They own the world. You'd better get used to it. And if you want to keep your job, you'll document only the professional parts of that conversation and forget the rest ever happened.” His eyes hardened and he stared straight ahead. “I will.”
“Yes, sir,” James said archly, standing straight and slowing his gait. When he spoke with his boss he typically bent his knees slightly and hunched over, helping to close the half-head gap. It seemed to make Reed more comfortable. Reed's comfort wasn't James' priority right now.
“I'll see you back at the office, James. I have another appointment, and I won’t need a scribe.” Reed ran, long, loping strides carrying the slim man to the retreating trolley car. He hopped on just in time and faded into the throng of riders. James knew he was going to find a quiet spot to have a drink. Or nine.
Alone now, James steeped himself in the memory of the morning meeting. Lilith's dress had been conservative, a high-necked white cotton Gibson Girl shirt and v-cut jacket made to emphasize broad shoulders she lacked. The gray heather jacket, made of a fine cloth James couldn't afford even if he spent a year's salary, nipped in tight at the waist, her ribs narrowing to a point so simple in diameter that he wondered if he'd even need both hands to close the space. The three-quarters sleeves showed she was a modernite, not afraid to show wrist, and James wondered how free thinking she was in bed.
Her skirt dropped off from under the tight waist, made of a fine white material that he thought was linen, as it was an off-white color and slightly wrinkled. Three horizontal stripes along the hem of the skirt, perfectly matching the heather tone of her jacket, finished the look. She was a fashion plate, but an odd mixture of old-fashioned Boston style and progressive dress.
The woman was as tiny as he was big. He was close to triple her weight, he assumed, and would just as well be able to eat her entire head as plant a passionate kiss on those poison lips. He wondered what she looked like without the armor, or wearing a simple, flowing silk dress. Again, arousal plagued him, and he cursed his lack of undergarments. The morning had been a blur of hangover and prying last night's woman from his bed, and in the rush to smooth his hair and find a presentable business suit, he'd found himself without anything clean. The thick wool of his buttoned suit pants scratched against his hard bulge and he willed thoughts of Lilith Stone away, thinking instead of the night's lecture before him. Dr. David Burnham was in town, talking about Ellis Havelock's findings on the sexual invert and its importance in human development and society.
The erection lingered; attempting to preoccupy himself only brought him to the edge of an enormous hole in the middle of the road, nearly pitching down a good twenty feet into an open sewer pit. That did the trick. Construction on the Charles River Dam had been ongoing for months now, and his bosses bemoaned the interference in the roads, making the commute to the office damn near impossible.
The water table rose, and runoff from Beacon Hill filled some of the lower parts of the Back Bay, leading to flooding. Getting from South Central Station to the common was hard enough. Avoiding these unmanned pits was harder. What wasn't hard, anymore, was the other brain James' body used for the wrong thoughts at the wrong times. He thanked God he hadn't absentmindedly fallen down that enormous hole, for he'd surely have broken a leg. Or worse. Such an ignominious way to harm oneself while being distracted by Lilith Stone.
Fury and flush fought each other within her. The morning meeting whipped through her mind at breakneck speed, repeating over and over. Her father's attempt – yet again! – to declare her incompetent. That stupid lawyer. The bear in the room. An attractive bear, who lit her skin and blood on fire in a different way, all flush and flesh where her father simply made her pride burn.
Why was she comparing her father to this James Hillman? What was wrong with her?
Ah, her father had been trying to figure that out for years.
In truth, nothing was wrong.
Everything was wrong.
He had told her once that she had every quality he could possibly hope for in a child. Perseverance, innate intelligence, keen analytical ability, a good judge of character, and a steel-filled spine. But she was the wrong gender.
Oh, how he'd pounded that into her from day one.
“Then why didn't you have a son, father?” she'd screamed in response. They'd fought the day before he sent her to McLean, and she remembered the day in sharp relief, her life bisected in two by her committal.
His reply, so steady and low, chilled her. “Because your mother seems capable of only providing me with females and idiots.” Julia had been twelve at the time, nonverbal, and recently toilet trained. Her mother had taken up residence at the house in Toronto then, leaving Lilith in Boston to attend Dana Hall School in Wellesley. She'd been in her final year there, ready to move on to Radcliffe.
Rarely shocked into silence, Lilith stood stunned and wordless. Stone had grimaced and reached toward her, an apology in his eyes that would never make it past his lips.
“I...I speak the truth,” he sighed, tucking what little emotion he'd revealed away.
“Then may I speak freely?”
“When do you not, Lilith?” The sarcasm hung in the air like mid-summer's humidity in the Back Bay.
“You are a monster. That's why mother moved away. You don't love Julia. You want to shunt her off to an institution, but she's not – she just needs more than you're willing to give. Mother wants to give it. So she's taken Julia away where you won't see her every day, and she takes her to doctors to try to make her talk and be normal. You're our father and you don't love us. If I were a boy I think it would be even worse. Any son of yours would be tortured by you. Nothing is ever good enough.”
Stone had stared at her, head cocked to the left as if soaking in her words.
And the next phrase out of her mouth had been what likely landed her in McLean Hospital, on the mental ward, for the final four months of her senior year at Dana Hall and the first semester of what should have been her first year at Radcliffe.
She was wholly unprepared for the education she received, instead, at McLean.
The Unitarian church in Cambridge hosted lectures on intellectual curiosities deemed too prurient or controversial for its neighbor across the road. While Harvard College might sponsor a talk by William James on psychology, a medical doctor with a focus on a more prurient aspect of the human psyche would have to settle for the congregational hall. Lilith quite liked the church, though she was not a member. Joining a church meant choosing a creed or covenant that would not be flexible enough to adapt and reform with new knowledge. She maintained a rigid, no-doctrine stance when it came to religion, refusing to yield.
“On the Understanding of Sexual Inversion” drew a broad crowd, far larger than the last lecture's crowd; “Variations in Mammalian Arousal” had been a cold, unyielding discussion about primates in Africa. Lilith had not been amused, nor particularly enlightened. Dr. Burnham's reputation, however, preceded him. The young Boston sexologist was not only known for his genius, he was also known for his rugged good looks. Still a bachelor in his mid-30s, the rumor mill swirled with tales of sexual deviance. As she studied his slick, sandy hair and warm brown eyes she wondered whether the handful of light brown hairs that peeked out under his cuffs dotted his chest. He carried himself like sporting man, but she had seen his hands. Soft, like her father's. Like a man unaccustomed to using them to better himself.
A large shadow caught her eye across the room and Lilith's mind erased all traces of consideration for Dr. Burnham. James Hillman. A passing circus had once caught Lilith's eye as her family made its way to the wharf for a European voyage, back in her early adolescent years. A freak labeled “The Bear Man” stood by, as tall as a small house and wide as a thick carriage. Hair covered his face, hands, and every exposed piece of skin. She'd found him fascinating but had dared not say a word to her parents.
James reminded her of the bear man, though he was less hirsute and considerably more human like, with keen, alert eyes.
That now gazed directly into hers.
She smiled involuntarily and then swallowed, holding his look. He returned the smile and doffed an imaginary hat; he clutched his hat in his hand and started, then realized his fumble. Widening the smile, he gestured with a small shrug, enough to acknowledge his silliness and yet with no implied apology.
A soundless chuckle escaped her. Quickly, she turned her attention to the lectern, where Dr. Burnham now stood, clearing his throat fruitlessly. No one would quiet down; the rowdy Cambridge crowd was never easily cowed. Manners were not prized here, among indecent company.
And Lilith wondered just how indecent as Maria Escola appeared, red whore's dress and painted face an intended insult to the plain house of worship. Though an open group, the Unitarians were, nonetheless, modest in dress and appearance. As tall and regal as Lilith was diminutive and boyish, the Peruvian beauty was a bit of a mystery in Boston. Her father was a wealthy Andes miner and had sent his daughter to Boston for finishing, yet no one could name the school she had attended. Marco Escola had followed his daughter, establishing residence on a sprawling estate just west of Cambridge, managing affairs for his mining company and shipping issues to funnel raw materials to the steel mills in Pittsburgh. The only metal Maria seemed to care for was precious, her ears, wrists and neck adorned in more jewelry than the Pope.
Bright red lips stood out, overshadowing Maria's lively eyes and painted lids. With a dress that looked like it had been poured on her, and a laugh that filled the room with a promise of debauchery, Maria Escola had taken Boston society by surprise. She was little more than an unpaid courtesan, and according to whispers she performed sexual delicacies on groups of men.
And liked it.
Lilith hadn't made up her mind about the woman. Firmly setting aside her own reaction, she returned her gaze to James Hillman who, she discovered, was now staring openly at Maria.
Lilith's mind made itself up right quickly. Whore.
“Thank you all for attending this lecture, titled 'On the Understanding of Sexual Inversion.' Before I begin, let me set clear expectations. 'Sexual Inversion' refers, specifically, to human beings who are attracted, sexually, to their own sex. That is, women who are aroused by and who have sexual relations with other women, and men who are aroused by and who have sexual relations with other men.” A wave of titters passed through the crowd. Burnham produced a tight smile, and continued. “There. Just so we're all clear. Does anyone need to leave the room? We have positioned smelling salts at all exit points, should the need arise.”
The crowd laughed openly.
“For as amusing – and uncomfortable – as the topic may seem, it is quite serious.” As Burnham continued his introduction, Lilith watched James watching Maria. Who watched the doctor.
James shifted his attention to Burnham. Much better, she thought, and then flinched internally. He looked like a Southie boy, someone so poor she could see through the soles of his shoes and find a piece of newspaper with the daily races printed on it. Irish, poor, and Catholic.
The perfect boy to bring home to her Brahmin father.
Perhaps she'd been hasty, giving her virginity to Jack Reed. James Hillman would have been far better specimen. Physically better, she mused, as an unfamiliar warmth pooled in her belly, just above her pubic bone, a swoon descending, making her a bit giddy and stupid.
And paternally better, as her father would have been apoplectic if she brought home a prime piece of “Irish Sewer Rat,” as he called the South Boston masses. “Good for cleaning chimneys and beating thieves.”
As Burnham explained lesbianism, Hillman stared keenly, absorbed in the talk. Then his eyes shifted, fast, like an ever-vigilant hawk, and shot a concentrated look of full attention on her, his look dark and serious. Normally undeterred by a strong stare, having been the recipient of so many from her father, Lilith nonetheless endeavored to maintain her composition.
This was no angry glare.
James's intentions were clear. With one long look he made the warmth in her nether regions turn to a white hot streak of need.
A hand shot up. Burnham pointed, and the audience member asked, condescension dripping like hot wax on a taper, “What good does lesbianism do, from a biological standpoint? Setting God aside,” he paused, furious whispers filling the room, “sex without procreation between a man and a woman is not productive. I would imagine that tribadism or other...proclivities between two women would be even less productive. Non-procreative sexual intercourse between a man and a woman does carry the chance of a child, while lesbian sexual activities carry no such chance.”
“Isn't that the point?” someone shouted. The crowd burst into laughter. Lilith looked away from James and searched the audience for the speakers.
Burnham's tight, tolerant smile quelled the din faster than any request for silence. “Indeed,” he spoke, drawing out the word. “Sex without procreation is, in fact a sin.”
“Let he who is without sin cast the first stone!” someone yelled.
“Let me, who is a Stone, remind you to say 'she' as well!” Lilith cried out, amused and haughty with an affect designed to be heard to the rafters.
She had hoped for raucous giggling but, instead, was greeted by shocked whispers and a few titters. Face burning and body tingling with mortification, she sat down but held her head up high, back straight, breathing in and out slowly.
James Hillman's full-throated laughter burst forth and filled the hall. Bent in half, the man looked like Goliath after being hit between the eyes, but instead of pain, it was pleasure and mirth that sent him into convulsions. More men joined him, and slowly, the room greeted Lilith with what she had hoped for.
Acceptance.
Dr. Burnham rode it out. What choice did he have? Lilith's mix of emotions ranged from bewilderment to gratitude to lust, all focused on the great bear across the room who, she found, had laughed so hard a button popped off his coat and struck the person in front of him, sending the people around him into hysterical fits that extended into tears, the group overcome with an existential laughter.
Finally, the din quieted enough that Burnham could exert control once more. "And so, as I was saying, assertive women tend to be inverts -- "
"Like Stone over there! And she can't even cast herself, after what happened with Reed!" someone shouted.
Now her face fell, a cold silence consuming her, the enormity of emptiness descending like madness in a famine, sweeping all vestiges of personality and belonging away. Across the room, James stood and pushed through the seats, fighting to get to the aisle. She saw him, the only movement faster than hers, and as she stumbled over legs and knees and chairs, all the body parts blurring together into a flesh soup, her only thought was escape. Freedom.
Air.
The cool autumn chill spilled some sense into her, lungs cold and steeled by the night fog. Breathe, Lilith, breathe. Her hand fluttered to her collarbone, playing idly, searching for something to grasp, a talisman to ground her. She never found one, but the palpitations that came in these moments were almost strong enough to grab, to hold her heart in her hand and let it calm, like a frightened baby bird that has fallen from its nest too soon in springtime.
James raced through the aisle, nearly crippling one older man as his foot hooked on the gentleman's knee, because he knew that she would flee from the embarrassment. Bold, it was, to shout like that. But the response had been horrific; Reed had obviously spread the word about his dalliance with Lilith, and that could signal the end of her reputability.
Then again, perhaps she didn't care. Yet her flight meant that the tossed-off joke had hit a nerve. He ached for her, then caught himself. What did a billionaire heiress need with him? The thought stopped him in his tracks, already outside and searching the streets for her. A few deep, ragged breaths later and he cleared his mind. Fool. Chasing after a woman who didn't know he existed.
Then he saw her, staring up at the night sky, gulping the air like it was water in the desert. Her desperation showed; thin arms rested akimbo on her tiny hips, her lightweight dress no match for fall's sudden chill. Perky breasts, not enough to fill half his hand, pushed against the cotton as her chest heaved up, then slowly lowered, each breath seeming to cleanse her. She bent over, hands on knees, and he wondered if she needed privacy for a sick stomach.
A swift self-correction and she stood straight again, lips pursed, nostrils flaring as she inhaled through them, seeming to count slowly, to a beat of eight, while letting the air back into the night. One, two, three such breaths and he admired her centeredness, her ability to find calm after public scorn. A delicate hand rose up to the base of her neck, as if searching for a gem on a necklace. Fingers played with the skin, tight against her clavicle, and then slowly descended down the valley between her breasts, settling at the diaphragm.
"Lilith." Proper manners dictated that he use her full name, but "Miss Stone" seemed too formal. He didn't want formality.
"James." Ah, she planned to match him. This one would give no quarter.
He tipped his head. "May I escort you to your carriage?" He nodded toward Harvard Square. Lectures abounded this particular evening, along with the usual Cambridge traffic, leaving many coachmen parked blocks from the church. Aspersions on her character be damned; no one would fault him, or her, for a brief walk to her coach's position.
Her eyes searched the area, then his face. One side of her mouth lifted in a sardonic smile. "Yes. I would like that."
Her thick, leather boots clicked on the cobblestones with sharp, staccato sounds. He imagined the leather would feel as soft as a baby's fat skin at the elbow, warm and supple, her boots costing as much as a year's worth of sewing for his mother. Lilith's dress was cut in a fine manner, and the cotton held a silky nuance that James admired, the weaving an artistic form that spoke of understood wealth, of money that didn't recognize itself, that whispered under the chatter of life and was part of the sound of everything that the rich assumed simply was.
A shock of cold on his foot and an obstacle in his arch made him stumble, nearly crashing in to Lilith. He righted himself quickly.
"A bit too much to drink?" she mused, arching an eyebrow and puckering her lips just so in a tease. A hard jolt of desire blossomed within him and he stifled it quickly, the roar too fast and too much to unleash on her now. Not yet.
The source of his stumble became apparent within three steps. Step -- flap. Step -- flap. Step -- flap. The sole of his shoe, already glued twice in place, had finally come unmoored. Shuffling would not work; the separation went past the back of the arch, almost clean through to the end of the heel. Newspaper he'd stuffed in the shoe some time ago was his only cushion against the dirt and stones.
Lilith glanced down, her ears catching the odd sound. Puzzled, she studied his foot for some time. He halted and stared at her, embarrassment and humiliation bubbling up.
"Is there a problem with your shoe?" she asked without guile.
"Yes."
"Do you need to go home to fetch another pair?"
"Another what?"
"Another pair of shoes?"
His eyes narrowed as he caught her gaze and bore down. "Another pair of shoes? As if anyone has a spare pair simply sitting around, gathering dust? Shall I go and get my extra gold ingots from Mr. Carnegie's pumpkin patch as well?"
She flinched and pulled away.
Ah, dammit. They continued walking. She said nothing, staring straight ahead.
Step--flap. Step--flap.
"Mr. Hillman, I --"
"James. Call me James. I have a flapping, torn shoe, woman. You don't need to worry about my dignity any longer." The acrimony in his voice made him laugh at himself. She joined him.
"You're embarrassed. I am sorry. I forget that...no, I assume. And I shouldn't assume." She pointed vaguely at his shoe, at a match girl, and at a beggar with no legs, propped against a coal chute, drinking from a dirty, green bottle. "I have no good excuse."
He shrugged. "You don't know a different life. I don't know a different life. These shoes," he pointed down, "are six years old. And I got them from my Da. So now I need to find the money to buy new, or hope my Da dies this weekend so I can inherit his shoes." She shot him an impertinent look and chuckled.
"No, let's save your Da. I'll pray my father dies this weekend, and then I'll send all his many shoes to your neighborhood and you can hand them out." Serious tones under the comedy made him sigh rather than laugh.
"You'd like that? For your father to die?"
She shuddered in response but said nothing.
"I'm sorry," he rushed in. "I meant no offense."
Surprise filled her face, then was replaced with comprehension. "Ah, no -- I didn't shudder from your words! I'm catching a chill."
He slid his coat off, noticing the missing button. No use retrieving it from Burnham's lecture; the crowd would tear Lilith to bits right now. Ma could find him a new one, he hoped. "Here," he said, sliding the coat over her shoulders. "This should keep you warm." What had been a suit coat on his body looked like an overcoat on Lilith. With sleeves that stretched to her knees.
Bursting into laughter, she wrapped the coat around her and tipped her chin up to meet his eyes. "Thank you."
"It's a ratty old thing. Cheap tweed. Nothing you're accustomed to." She made him feel small and insignificant, a feat few had achieved. Never did she hint at intent to do so. Nonetheless, it hung between them, the burden of it on his shoulders, a weight far greater than he'd ever managed.
She tilted her head and studied his face, letting layers of silence deepen their connection. When she spoke it was an old soul's words. "You realize I do not care. I've been raised with wealth. You have not."
He studied her face – there was no taunting, no sarcasm. Her words were without affect, a statement of fact. A brief thought – my God, she's the one – passed through his mind so quickly he almost didn't catch it, the skin on his arms turning to gooseflesh not from the night chill, but rather from his premonition.
“James?” Gentle tones, questioning his inattentiveness. He peered down at her; she had taken two tentative steps toward him. Praying he was not too forward, and shocked at his own worry, he reached down and rested his hand on her shoulder.
“Yes?” he whispered, unsure of his own vocal cords. Right now, he was unsure of himself. Unsure of the night. Unsure of everything but those gemstone eyes.
His hand seemed to render her speechless. Blinking, she stared at him, then sighed and shook her head slightly. Tightening his grasp was involuntarily; he feared she was shaking off the very feelings that stirred inside him, searching for homeostasis. Particles that clouded the solution of his heart and soul as they were shaken by this turn of events. Particles that would, nonetheless, settle sometime.
Yet always remain in the liquid.
Her face inclined toward his, a small moon to the one in the sky, and as if pulled by fate his lips found hers, tiny hands wrapping around his neck as he bent over, nearly folding in half to catch her mouth.
Her artless response took him by surprise but increased this confounded tenderness that he could not help but feel toward her. While lacking in skill, Lilith's eager response showed an abundance of desire. As he slowly, playfully teased her lips with his tongue, a wellspring of desire claimed his rational mind and he pressed against her, his arousal unmistakably clear.
The kisses slowed, the connection fostered, the aftermath now inevitably making its way to clarity signaled to both that a parting of faces and bodies must take place. James, pulled back, then leaned his forehead against hers, inhaling her lavender scent mixed with the musk and grime of his respectable, though well-worn, coat.
“James,” she breathlessly intoned.
“Yes?”
“Do you have a healthy fear of billionaire fathers?” She kept her face hidden, but he could feel her grin piercing his heart, the implied laughter a balm that felt forbidden.
He pulled back and held her at arm's distance, the streetlight's arc of light around them forming a protective barrier against the dark. “I do indeed, Lilith. But more important: does your father have a healthy fear of Southie ne'er do wells who kiss his daughter?”
“I think,” she replied, narrowing her eyes as if appraising a jewel, turning her head to and fro to examine him through her own unyielding prism, “we are about to find out.”