The girl crossed the room, passing close to the stranger in the house. The fragrance of a perfume hitherto unknown to her separated itself from the odour of sandalwood that always filled the place; it was soft, delicate, refreshing. It was like a breath of cool, sweet air filtering into a close, stuffy enclosure. One could not help drawing in a long, full breath, as if the lungs demanded its revivifying qualities. A soft, red glow began to fill the room as Lydia pulled the cord near the door. There was no clicking sound, no sharp contact of currents; the light came up gradually, steadily, until the whole space was drenched with its refulgence. There were no shadows. Every nook and corner seemed to fill with the warm, pleasant hue of the setting sun, and yet no visible means appeared. As the light grew brighter and brighter the eyes of the stranger swept the room with undisguised wonder in their depths. “How extraordinary!” she murmured, and then turned swiftly toward the girl. “Where does it come from? I can see no lights. And see! There are no shadows, not even beneath the table yonder. It--it is uncanny--but, oh, how lovely!” Lydia was staring at her with wide-open eyes, frankly astonished. The eager, excited gleam vanished from Mrs Brood's lovely eyes. They narrowed slightly. “Why do you stare at me?” she demanded. “I beg your pardon,” cried the girl, blushing. “I--I couldn't help it, Mrs Brood. Why, you are young!” The exclamation burst from her lips. “Young?” queried the other, frowning. “I--I expected----” began Lydia, and stopped in pretty confusion. “I see. You expected a middle-aged lady? And why, pray, should James Brood marry a middle-aged person?” “I--I don't know. I'm sorry if I have offended you.” Mrs Brood smiled, a gay, pleased little smile that revealed her small, even teeth. “You haven't offended me, my dear,” she said. “You offend my husband by thinking so ill of him, that's all.” She took the girl in from head to foot with critical eyes. “He said you were very pretty and very lovable. You are lovely. Isn't it a horrid word? Pretty! No one wants to be pretty. Yes, you are just what I expected.” Lydia was the taller of the two women--a matter of two inches perhaps--and yet she had the curious feeling that she was looking upward as she gazed into the other's eyes. It was the way Mrs Brood held herself. “He has known me since I was a little girl,” she said, as if to account for Brood's favourable estimate. “And he knew your mother before you were born,” said the other. “She, too, is--shall I say pretty?” “My mother isn't pretty, Mrs Brood,” said Lydia, conscious of a sudden feeling of resentment. “She is handsome,” said Mrs Brood with finality. Sending a swift glance around the room, she went on: “My husband delights in having beautiful things about him. He doesn't like the ugly things of this world.”