Sally never went back to the workroom. She hurried from it to the old house in Kensington in which the Merricks had lived for years; and as she saw the house, so black with dust, and the steps that led up to the heavy front door, even Sally's heart quailed. She hesitated for several minutes before going up the steps, and loitered there, a little figure in a grey dress, trim and _chic_, but not at all the girl to take control of such a mansion and of the difficulties which lay within. She could not tell what a mass of custom the house indicated; but her instinct was enough to make her feel extraordinarily small, extraordinarily untrained and incapable. It had been very well for her to suppose that everything could be seized and controlled at a glance. The reality was too solid for a longer dream. Thoughtless, over-confident as her fantasy had been, she had the sense which a child has when a running man comes threateningly near--of a great shape, of unexpected size and dangerousness, looming out of the focussed picture, and setting all previous conceptions at nought. Here was this giant house, and Madam lying dead in it, and servants who would resent her appearance, and Gaga; and Sally was such a little girl in the face of a definite trial. She was a little girl, and she would never be able to deal with what lay ahead. It was a long, devastating spasm of doubt, like a trembling of the earth. The house towered above her, huge and gloomy; and other houses, equally oppressive, continued from the Merricks' house, with basements and railings and great black fronts and lace curtains, until the road turned and its end was unseen. And Sally, who had lived all her life in small flats and single rooms, was shaken. Her heart sank. She entered the house. Her head was high, from pride; but her qualms were intense. An atmosphere of solemn melancholy made everybody speak in low tones. She had difficulty in remaining calm. All the rooms were large rooms, filled with large furniture and old pictures and prints. Madam had made her home for comfort; and the taste which had marked her other work was here subdued. An old clock ticked steadily; and if there were no ancient horrors at least the house within did not belie its serious front. Sally was like a little doll, shrinking under the weight of such solid comfort, and not yet able to appraise it in terms of possession and disposal. She was still shy and timid. Wherever, upon this first entrance, she looked round for encouragement, she found none. During that first evening she was so miserable that she could have run away. She was like a child that goes for the first time to school, and feels bereft of every familiar support and association.