There was no window in the room, but it was well lit, indirectly.
“I want my clothes!” she said.
“You may inquire later about your clothing, but not now,” he said.
The blond-haired, blue-eyed woman, to whom the older woman had taken such an instant dislike, whom she had scorned as so simple, so unworthy of the male, the one who had accompanied him to the performances, and had been his companion in the limousine, she who seemed so vital, so alive, so sensuous, who was so insolently, so excitingly figured, who was so primitive, so sensual that she seemed little more than a luscious, beautiful, well-curved animal designed by nature to stimulate and satisfy with perfection the lowest, the most basic and the most physical needs of powerful, inconsiderate men, was also in the room. Oddly, in spite of the fact that there were chairs in the room, she was kneeling, beside the desk. She wore a brief, silken, scarlet, diaphanous gown. It left little to conjecture of, concerning her beauty. The older woman enjoyed looking down upon her, seeing her there on her knees, so garbed. Hostility, like cold wire, was taut between the women.
The young man rose from behind the desk, and drew a chair toward the desk, placing it before the desk.
“Please seat yourself,” he invited the older woman.
“You will let her sit?” cried the woman kneeling beside the desk.
He turned a sharp glance upon the speaker, and, suddenly, her entire demeanor changed, and she trembled, shrinking down, making herself small, and holding her head down.
“Tutina, it seems, forgot herself,” said the young man. “I apologize. Do not fear. She will be disciplined.”
So ‘Tutina’, then, thought the older woman, is the name of that stupid tart! It seemed an odd name, an unfamiliar sort of name, but it did not seem inappropriate for one such as she, one who was so elementally, so simplistically, so reductively female. The older woman did not understand the meaning of the reference to “discipline,” but something in that word, seemingly in its very sound, terrified her. Did it suggest that the woman’s femininity, the very principle of her femininity, was somehow uncompromisingly subjected to his masculinity, to the very principle of his masculinity?
The young man then turned again, affably, toward the older woman, indicating the chair.
Clearly the blonde was frightened.
The older woman, too, was frightened, for she had seen his glance. She looked about, wildly.
“There is no telephone in the room,” he said.
“I shall scream,” whispered the older woman, knowing she would not do so.
“It would do you no good,” the young man said. “We are in an isolated dwelling, on a remote estate.”
There was another door in the room, other than that which led in from the bedroom. Suddenly, awkwardly, she fled toward it, and flung it open. Outside two men, large, unpleasant looking men, one of them the chauffeur, rose suddenly from chairs, blocking her way.
She shrank back.
“Do you want her stripped and bound, and thrown to your feet?” inquired the chauffeur.
“No,” said the young man, agreeably.
“She wears the anklet,” said the chauffeur.
“That will be all,” said the young man to the chauffeur, and then the chauffeur and his companion drew back, chastened, deferentially closing the door behind them. “Please,” said the young man to the older woman, gently, indicating the chair he had placed before the desk.
She stood before the chair.
“I searched in the all the drawers, and the chests, in the bedroom,” she cried, “and my clothes were not there! Then I came out.”
“Dressed as you are,” said the young man.
“Yes,” she whispered.
“I had thought you might have wrapped yourself in a sheet, or comforter, or such,” he smiled.
“I shall go back and do so,” she said.
“You have chosen to present yourself as you are, and you will remain clad as you are,” he said.
The blond woman looked up from her knees, a tiny smile on her lips.
“I want my clothing,” said the older woman.
“I told you that you might inquire later about your clothing, not now,” said the young man, evenly.
“This is all I have on!” protested the older woman, indicating the starched, white, stiff gown, so simple, so antiseptic, in its appearance. It was substantially open in the back, save for two ties, one at the back of the neck and another at the small of the back.
“Not all, actually,” said the young man.
She looked down at her left ankle. “Remove this horrid thing from my ankle!” she demanded.
“It is certainly not horrid,” he said. “It is actually quite attractive. It sets your ankle off very nicely. Indeed your ankle looks as though it might have been made to be encircled by such a ring. Do not concern yourself with it. The steel, circling closely about the flesh, is indisputably lovely, as well as, independently, of course, quite meaningful.”
Tears sprang to her eyes.
“You are not alone,” he said. He turned to Tutina, who was now, as he stood, to his left. “Anklet!” he snapped.
Instantly she turned about, sinuously, and, half lying, half kneeling, extended her left leg, gracefully, toward the older woman, her knee slightly bent, her toes pointed, extending the line of her well-curved calf. There, on her ankle, there was a similar ring.
The older woman gasped, in misery. Did this mean that she, somehow, now shared some status, or condition, with that other woman, that trivial, simple, stupid, hated, beautiful Tutina? Surely not! Too, she now understood the meaning of the bandage which had been worn by Tutina to both performances. It was to conceal the device on her ankle, which had not been removed. It seemed that Tutina might be no more capable than she of removing the device, and, too, that she might be kept within it much as a matter of course. Too, the older woman was alarmed, and troubled, by the sudden, prompt, immediate, graceful response of Tutina to the utterance “Anklet!” It was as though she had been trained to present the device for easy view, and immediately, gracefully, beautifully, upon the utterance of that word, which, it seemed, constituted an understood, familiar command. Lastly the older woman sensed, from the sharpness with which the command had been issued, that the young man was not pleased with Tutina. That doubtless went back to Tutina’s protest when the young man had invited her to seat herself. The older woman suspected that the young man might recall this lapse, if lapse it was, to Tutina when they were alone. Certainly, after the incident, Tutina had appeared to be uneasy, and perhaps apprehensive.
The older woman recalled that the young man had made a casual reference to “discipline.” She had not understand the reference, but, somehow, it had frightened her. She recalled that the reference had been made easily, almost in passing, treating it as though it might be something unimportant, something trivial, a mere matter of course, something to be simply taken for granted.
But the blonde, Tutina, had not taken the matter so lightly. She had been clearly frightened. Even now she was clearly frightened.
The young man snapped his fingers, and Tutina swirled back to her original position, and kept her head down.
“There is some sort of marking on the thing,” said the older woman, looking down, to her own ankle.
“Do not concern yourself with it,” he said. “It is a reference number, yours, in our records.”
“Who undressed me? Who put me in this gown?” asked the older woman, frightened.
“Tutina,” said the young man.
She glanced at the blond woman, who then, lifting her head, smiled up at her, knowingly, scornfully. No longer then, at that moment, did Tutina seem timid. To be sure, she was then relating to the older woman, not to the young man.