The game was interrupted by another knock at the house-door; this time it was but the delivery of the evening paper.  Lilian settled herself in a chair by the fireside, and addressed herself with a serious countenance to the study of the freshly-printed columns.  Beginning with the leading-article, she read page after page in the most conscientious way, often pausing to reflect, and once even to pencil a note on the margin.  The paper finished, she found it necessary for the clear understanding of a certain subject to consult a book of reference, and for this purpose she went to a room in the rear—­a small study, comfortably but plainly furnished, smelling of tobacco.  It was very chilly, and she did not spend much time over her researches.

A sound from the lower part of the house checked her returning steps; some one was rapping at the door down in the area.  It happened that she was to-day without a servant; she must needs descend into the kitchen herself and answer the summons.  When the nether regions were illumined and the door thrown open, Lilian beheld a familiar figure, that of a scraggy and wretchedly clad woman with a moaning infant in her arms.

“Oh, it’s you, Mrs. Wilson!” she exclaimed.  “Please to come in.  How have you been getting on?  And how is baby?”

The woman took a seat by the kitchen fire, and began to talk in a whining, mendicant tone.  From the conversation it appeared that this was by no means the first time she had visited Lilian and sought to arouse her compassion; the stories she poured forth consisted in a great measure of excuses for not having profited more substantially by the help already given her.  The eye and the ear of experience would readily enough have perceived in Mrs. Wilson a very coarse type of impostor, and even Lilian, though showing a face of distress at what she heard, seemed to hesitate in her replies and to entertain troublesome doubts.  But the objection she ventured to make to a flagrant inconsistency m the tale called forth such loud indignation, such a noisy mixture of insolence and grovelling entreaty, that her moral courage gave way and Mrs. Wilson whined for another quarter of an hour in complete security from cross-examination.  In the end Lilian brought out her purse and took from it half-a-sovereign.

“Now, if I give you this, Mrs. Wilson, I do hope to have a better account”——­

Her admonitions were cut short, and with difficulty she managed to obtain hearing for a word or two of what was meant for grave counsel whilst taking leave of her visitor.  Mrs. Wilson, a gleam in her red eyes, vanished up the area steps, and left Lilian to meditate on the interview.

The evening passed on, and her solitude was undisturbed.  When dinner-time came, she sat down to the wing of a cold chicken and a thimbleful of claret much diluted; the repast was laid out with perfection of neatness, and at its conclusion she cleared the table like the handiest of parlour-maids.  Whatever she did was done gracefully; she loved order, and when alone was no less scrupulous in satisfying her idea of the becoming than when her actions were all observed.