It was with an eye, therefore, comparatively clear that I once more approached Paternoster Towers and with a hand almost steady that I again knocked at its front door. Nor was the strange parlourmaid that received my card and presently conducted me to Mrs. Chrysostom’s room appreciably less respectful in her demeanour than the gentle domestic that had first received me. But the room itself, apart from its floor, which was now almost lecherous in its degree of polish, was so transformed that for several moments I could scarcely believe myself in the same apartment. Gone was the French-looking writing-table with its reflected legs. Gone was the nude huntress with the splinter in her calf. Gone was the oval mirror with its indelicate Cupids. Gone even was the photograph signed Your aff. Chrysostom. Nay, gone was the very couch with its sensuous cushions, and in its place stood a low divan, padded it was true, and not uncomfortably, but cushioned and draped with the sombrest purple. There hung upon the walls, too, what were apparently lists of commandments, engraved upon parchment in foreign characters, while in each angle of the room stood a sort of shrine containing an alabaster image and an electric candle. Moreover, although it was still daylight, the curtains were drawn; a casket of incense swung from the ceiling; and between the lists of commandments, hung various religious implements, phylacteries, wands, and sacrificial knives. Profound, and indeed disturbing, however, as were the changes in the room, those in Mrs. Chrysostom were even more remarkable, although in actual appearance she had altered very little since I had last been obliged to interview her. It was just conceivable, in fact, that for less disciplined eyes she might still have retained a certain attraction, not unenhanced by the severity of her gown and the sober arrangement of her hair. Parted at the side, this now fell over her brow in a single yellowish-coloured wave, while her dark dress—it was still clinging, I noticed—was unadorned in every respect. Her whole mien, too, was entirely different, and as she drooped, as it were, into the room, she extended her hand to me with a sort of grave surprise, as if I had been some stranger whom she had never seen. “How do you do?” she said, sinking upon the divan. “This is my little temple. Won’t you sit down?” I glanced about me. “I can’t offer you a chair,” she said. “But you’ll find my prayer-mat just behind you.” Just as I put my heel upon it, however, it began to slip, and leaning over, she put her finger upon it. “Let me hold it,” she said, “while you lower yourself. I once had a visitor who lost two of his trouser-buttons.” “It was myself,” I said. She looked at me steadfastly. “But surely,” she said, “I haven’t seen you before?” I bowed to her gravely. “You certainly have,” I said. She lifted her eyebrows a little. “But can that be possible?” she asked.