Mavis walked up the steps to the front door.  Her heart sank as she noticed that the plaster had worn away and was broken from various parts of the house, which had a shabby and dilapidated appearance.  Mavis set going a bell, which could be heard faint-heartedly tinkling in the distance; she employed the time that she was kept waiting in examining the statue.  This was as depressing as the house:  its smile was cracked in the middle; a rude boy had reddened the lady’s nose; its dress cried aloud for some kindly disposed person to give it a fresh coat of paint.  Presently, a drab of a little servant opened the inner door.

“’Pectus?” said the girl, directly she caught sight of Mavis.

“I want to see Mr Poulter.”

“Not a ’pectus?”

Mavis repeated her request.

“Come insoide.  ’E’s ‘avin’ ’is tea.”

Mavis followed the drab along a passage:  at the end of this was a door, above which was inscribed “Ladies’ Cloak Room.”

Opening this, the drab said mechanically: 

“Walk insoide.  What nime?”

“Miss Keeves.  I’ve come from Miss Meakin.”

Mavis walked inside, to find herself in a smallish room, the walls of which were decorated with rows of hooks, beneath each of which was a number printed in large type.  There were a cracked toilette glass, a few rickety chairs, a heavy smell of stale toilet powder, and little else.  A few moments later, a little, shrivelled-up, elderly woman walked into the room with a slight hobble.  Mavis noticed her narrow, stooping shoulders, which, although the weather was warm, were covered by a shawl; her long upper lip; her snub nose; also that she wore her right arm in a sling.

“Was you waiting to see Mr Poulter particular?” she asked.

“I was rather.”

“’E’s ‘avin’ ’is tea, and—­and you know what these artists are at meal-time,” said the little woman confidentially.

“I’m in no hurry.  I can easily wait,” said Mavis.

“Was you come about ’privates’?” asked the little woman wistfully.

“Privates?”

“I mean private lessons.  ‘Poulter’s’ always calls ’em ‘privates.’”

“I heard you were in want of an accompanist.  I came to offer my services.”

“It won’t be for long; my fingers is nearly healed of the chilblains.”

“Anything is better than nothing,” remarked Mavis.

“Would you mind if I heard you play?”

“Not at all.”

“My word might go some way with Mr Poulter.  See?” said the little woman confidentially.

“It’s very good of you,” remarked Mavis, who was beginning to like the little, shrivelled-up old thing.

The woman with the chilblains led the way to a door in a corner of the cloak-room, which Mavis had not noticed before.  Mavis followed her down an inclined, boarded-in gangway, decorated with coloured presentation plates from long forgotten Christmas numbers of popular weeklies, to the ballroom, which was a portable iron building erected in the back garden of the academy.  At the further end was a platform, which supported a forlorn-looking piano.