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where she was, or what had been done to her. She did know that she was in a strange bed, in a strange room, and in a strange garment.
    She regarded herself in the mirror.
    She was ankleted.
     
     

Chapter 4
    HOW CERTAIN THINGS WERE EXPLAINED TO HER,
    BUT MUCH REMAINED STILL UNCLEAR
     
    “I thought you were awake,” he said, looking up from the desk. “I thought I heard you cry out, a bit ago, from within.”
    She stood in the threshold of the bedroom, having emerged from it, now facing the room outside.
    “Where am I?” she cried. “What am I doing here? What is the meaning of this? Where are my clothes? Why am I dressed like this?”
    “Did you enjoy the performance of La Bohème ?” he asked.
    She looked about the room, frightened, tears burning in her eyes. The room seemed rather officelike, and there were shelves of books about the walls, and certain curios here and there, and occasional meaningless bric-a-brac, or so one supposes, and some filing cabinets, some office machinery, diverse paraphernalia, some chairs.
    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