not forget how her presence in Mrs Hamilton’s house was the result of an appeal to her Heavenly Father, who, she firmly believed, would not let a human sparrow such as she fall to the ground.  She was curious to discover the result of this seemingly preordained meeting.  The sentimental speculation engendered a dreamy languor which was suddenly interrupted by a sense of acute disquiet.  She was always a girl of abnormal susceptibility to what was going on about her; to such an extent was this sensibility developed, that she had learned to put implicit faith in the intuitions that possessed her.  Now, she was certain that something was going on in the house, something that was hideous, unnatural, unholy, the conviction of which seemed to freeze her soul.  She had not the slightest doubt on the matter:  she felt it in the marrow of her bones.

She placed her hand on her eyes, as if to shut out the horrid certainty; the temporary deprivation of sight but increased the acuteness of her impression, consequently, her uneasiness.  She felt the need of space, of good, clean air.  The fine drawing-room seemed to confine her being; she hurried to the door in order to escape.  Directly she opened it, she found Parkins, the over-dressed maid, outside, who, directly she saw Mavis, barred her further progress.

“What is it, miss?” she asked.

“Mrs Hamilton!  I must see her.”

“You can’t, miss.”

“I must.  I must.  There’s something going on.  I must see her.”

A fearsome expression came over the maid’s face as she said: 

“I was coming to remind you from madam of your promise to her not to leave the drawing-room.”

“I must.  I must.”

“If I may say so, miss, it will be as much as your place is worth to disobey madam.”

These words brought a cold shock of reason to Mavis’s fevered excitement.

She looked blankly at the servant for a moment or two, before saying: 

“Thank you, Parkins; I will wait inside.”

If her many weeks of looking for employment had taught her nothing else, they now told her how worse than foolish it would be to shatter at one blow Mrs Hamilton’s good opinion of her.  In compliance with her employer’s request, she returned to the drawing-room, her nerves all on edge.

Although more convinced than before of the presence of some abomination, she made a supreme effort to divert her thoughts into channels promising relief from her present tension of mind.

She caught up and eagerly examined the first thing that came to hand.  It was a large, morocco-bound, gold-edged photograph album; almost before she was aware of it, she was engrossed in its contents.  It was full from cover to cover of coloured photographs of women.  There were dark girls, fair girls, auburn girls, every type of womanhood to be met with under Northern skies; they ranged from slim girls in their teens to over-ripe beauties, whose principal