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in his own house. Had there ever been any doubt? None at all in retrospect.
    'Man, Mr. John, this suit finish,' Middlesex observed.
    'Burn it,' Haggard said. He did not wish to be reminded of last night in any event. He climbed the stairs, hesitated at the top. He could hear water being emptied into a tin tub, the scurrying of the maids as they ran down the back staircase with empty buckets. He turned to the left, went to the nursery. Amelia sat in a rocking chair, moving slowly to and fro.
    'Mr. Haggard, suh.' She hastened to her feet. The boy sleeping, Mr. Haggard. He does be have he breakfast one hour ago, and he sleeping.'
    'You didn't tell him where I'd gone?'
    'He ain't asking, Mr. Haggard.'
    Haggard nodded. He didn't suppose Roger really knew who his father was, or indeed if he had one. He went into his own room, where Henry Suffolk, his valet, waited for him. 'Get rid of all of these, Henry,' he said, as he undressed.
    'Yes, sir, Mr. John. Mr. John . . . we is too glad you didn't get hit.'
    'So am I, Henry. So am I.' The last of his clothes fell to the floor, and Henry hastily gathered them up, averting his eyes from his master's erection. Now how long was it since Henry had had to do that? And why was he waiting any longer? He was here, she was there . . . but she would be better after she had eaten.
    Yet there was no reason not to look. He allowed Henry to wrap him in an undressing robe, left his feel bare, walked along the gallery and opened the door to the spare bedroom where Emma had been taken. The four slave girls who had been scrubbing her hastily stood up. For a moment it seemed Emma did not realise what had happened, then she saw Haggard standing in the doorway,-gave a startled half scream, and leapt out of the tub, kneeling on the far side in an attempt to hide herself while her hands closed on her breasts.
    Haggard realised that he had done better than he supposed possible. The skin was creamy white, dotted with occasional freckles; the legs were long and slender; the belly was only slightly pouted; the breasts were bigger than he would have dared hope—they overflowed from the small hands attempting to conceal them. While the whole was made utterly entrancing by the wet red hair which see med to stain her shoulders, by t he dark forest at her groin, just visible above the edge of the t ub.
    He licked his lips. 'Stand up, girl,' he said, 'I would look at you. ’
    Her own tongue came ou t, slowly, anxiously. 'You're a man,' she accused.
    'You got a queer one here, Mr. John," Annie remarked.
    Haggard gazed at her for a moment longer. Could she really be the innocent she pretended? Or even the half lady she pretended? But to think about her would be to lose his own purpose. Remember only that she should be hanging, and dying. She had no existence, save in his mind and his presence. He walked into the room, stood behind her; she would not tum her head. There were only faint marks on her flesh where she had been flogged. 'Give her something to wear and send her to me,' he said, and was surprised to find his voice was thick.
     
    He went down the stairs and on to the verandah, where Middlesex and his army of footmen had already arranged breakfast. Fresh flying fish, fried in butter, slices of ripe green avocado pear, a plate of soft boiled eggs, and lashings of coffee, imported from England at prohibitive cost, but sweetened with Haggard's own sugar. Haggard sat down, watched the girl descending the stairs. She had been dressed in one of the shapeless gowns the house slaves wore, but her hair had been left loose instead of being bound up in a bandanna. It was still wet, and hardly moved as she came outside.
    'Sit down,' Haggard said. 'Eat.'
    Emma swallowed, and he realised her mouth must have filled with saliva. She sat opposite him, stared at the food.
    'Eat,' Haggard said, and nodded to Middlesex, who hastily loaded the girl's plate. Still she stared at the food, and glanced at Haggard, rather like a kitten,