On the afternoon of the day next after the dinner of two at the gatehouse, the bell is rung with the usual fluttering results.

‘Mr. Edwin Drood to see Miss Rosa.’

This is the announcement of the parlour-maid in chief.  Miss Twinkleton, with an exemplary air of melancholy on her, turns to the sacrifice, and says, ‘You may go down, my dear.’  Miss Bud goes down, followed by all eyes.

Mr. Edwin Drood is waiting in Miss Twinkleton’s own parlour:  a dainty room, with nothing more directly scholastic in it than a terrestrial and a celestial globe.  These expressive machines imply (to parents and guardians) that even when Miss Twinkleton retires into the bosom of privacy, duty may at any moment compel her to become a sort of Wandering Jewess, scouring the earth and soaring through the skies in search of knowledge for her pupils.

The last new maid, who has never seen the young gentleman Miss Rosa is engaged to, and who is making his acquaintance between the hinges of the open door, left open for the purpose, stumbles guiltily down the kitchen stairs, as a charming little apparition, with its face concealed by a little silk apron thrown over its head, glides into the parlour.

‘O!  It is so ridiculous!’ says the apparition, stopping and shrinking.  ‘Don’t, Eddy!’

‘Don’t what, Rosa?’

‘Don’t come any nearer, please.  It is so absurd.’

‘What is absurd, Rosa?’

’The whole thing is.  It is so absurd to be an engaged orphan and it is so absurd to have the girls and the servants scuttling about after one, like mice in the wainscot; and it is so absurd to be called upon!’

The apparition appears to have a thumb in the corner of its mouth while making this complaint.

‘You give me an affectionate reception, Pussy, I must say.’

’Well, I will in a minute, Eddy, but I can’t just yet.  How are you?’ (very shortly.)

’I am unable to reply that I am much the better for seeing you, Pussy, inasmuch as I see nothing of you.’

This second remonstrance brings a dark, bright, pouting eye out from a corner of the apron; but it swiftly becomes invisible again, as the apparition exclaims:  ’O good gracious! you have had half your hair cut off!’

‘I should have done better to have had my head cut off, I think,’ says Edwin, rumpling the hair in question, with a fierce glance at the looking-glass, and giving an impatient stamp.  ‘Shall I go?’

’No; you needn’t go just yet, Eddy.  The girls would all be asking questions why you went.’

’Once for all, Rosa, will you uncover that ridiculous little head of yours and give me a welcome?’

The apron is pulled off the childish head, as its wearer replies:  ’You’re very welcome, Eddy.  There!  I’m sure that’s nice.  Shake hands.  No, I can’t kiss you, because I’ve got an acidulated drop in my mouth.’