But Rachel made no response to this invitation either.  She stopped with her fingers on the handle of the door, as if she remembered that some sort of pronouncement was due from her.

“I suppose you’ll marry one of them,” she said, and then turned the handle and shut the door behind her.  She walked slowly down the passage, running her hand along the wall beside her.  She did not think which way she was going, and therefore walked down a passage which only led to a window and a balcony.  She looked down at the kitchen premises, the wrong side of the hotel life, which was cut off from the right side by a maze of small bushes.  The ground was bare, old tins were scattered about, and the bushes wore towels and aprons upon their heads to dry.  Every now and then a waiter came out in a white apron and threw rubbish on to a heap.  Two large women in cotton dresses were sitting on a bench with blood-smeared tin trays in front of them and yellow bodies across their knees.  They were plucking the birds, and talking as they plucked.  Suddenly a chicken came floundering, half flying, half running into the space, pursued by a third woman whose age could hardly be under eighty.  Although wizened and unsteady on her legs she kept up the chase, egged on by the laughter of the others; her face was expressive of furious rage, and as she ran she swore in Spanish.  Frightened by hand-clapping here, a napkin there, the bird ran this way and that in sharp angles, and finally fluttered straight at the old woman, who opened her scanty grey skirts to enclose it, dropped upon it in a bundle, and then holding it out cut its head off with an expression of vindictive energy and triumph combined.  The blood and the ugly wriggling fascinated Rachel, so that although she knew that some one had come up behind and was standing beside her, she did not turn round until the old woman had settled down on the bench beside the others.  Then she looked up sharply, because of the ugliness of what she had seen.  It was Miss Allan who stood beside her.

“Not a pretty sight,” said Miss Allan, “although I daresay it’s really more humane than our method. . . .  I don’t believe you’ve ever been in my room,” she added, and turned away as if she meant Rachel to follow her.  Rachel followed, for it seemed possible that each new person might remove the mystery which burdened her.

The bedrooms at the hotel were all on the same pattern, save that some were larger and some smaller; they had a floor of dark red tiles; they had a high bed, draped in mosquito curtains; they had each a writing-table and a dressing-table, and a couple of arm-chairs.  But directly a box was unpacked the rooms became very different, so that Miss Allan’s room was very unlike Evelyn’s room.  There were no variously coloured hatpins on her dressing-table; no scent-bottles; no narrow curved pairs of scissors; no great variety of shoes and boots; no silk petticoats lying on the chairs.  The room was extremely neat.  There