IV RACK AND THUMBSCREW Her eyelids were red and swollen, her brown hair, flattened out of its pretty curves, clung closely to her head. Ink stained her hands, and there was even a bluish smear of it on her wrist. A tray with tea-things stood among the litter of manuscript on her table. The tea-pot had only cold tea-leaves in it; the bread and butter was untouched. She put down the pen, and went to the window. The rose-tint of the sunset was reflected on the bank of mist and smoke beyond the river. Above, where the sky was pale and clear, a star or two twinkled contentedly. She stamped her foot. Already the beautiful garments of the evening mist, with veiled lights in the folds of it, was embroidered sparsely with the early litten lamps of impatient workers, and as she gazed, the embroidery was enriched by more and more yellow and white and orange--the string of jewels along the embankment, the face of the church clock. She turned from the window to the room, and lighted her own lamp, for the room was now deeply dusk. It was a large, low, pleasant room. It had always seemed pleasant to her through the five years in which she had worked, and played, and laughed, and cried there. Now she wondered why she had not always hated it. The stairs creaked. The knocker spoke. She caught her head in both hands. "My God!" she said, "this is too much!" Yet she went to the door. "Oh--it's only you," she said, and, with no other greeting, walked back into the room, and sat down at the table. The newcomer was left to close the outer door, and to follow at her own pleasure. The newcomer was another girl, younger, prettier, smarter. She turned her head sidewise, like a little bird, and looked at her friend with very bright eyes. Then she looked round the room. "My dear Jane," she said, "whatever have you been doing to yourself?" "Nothing," said her dear Jane very sulkily. "Oh, if genius burns--your stairs are devilish--but if you'd rather I went away----" "No, don't go, Milly. I'm perfectly mad." She jumped up and waved her outstretched arms over the mass of papers on the table. "Look at all this--three days' work--rot--abject rot! I wish I was dead. I was wondering just now whether it would hurt much if one leaned too far out of the window--and---- No, I didn't do it--as you see." "What's the matter?" asked the other prosaically. "Nothing. That's just it. I'm perfectly well--at least I was--only now I'm all trembly with drink." She pointed to the tea-cups. "It's the chance of my life, and I can't take it. I can't work: my brain's like batter. And everything depends on my idiot brain--it has done for these five years. That's what's so awful. It all depends on me--and I'm going all to pieces." "I told you so!" rejoined the other. "You would stay in town all the summer and autumn, slaving away. I knew you'd break down, and now you've done it." "I've slaved for five years, and I've never broken down before."