The Rosary, St. John's Wood: that was the address which Christabel had given the cabman. Had any less distinguished person than Stella Mayne lived at the Rosary it might have taken the cabman all the evening to find that particular house, with no more detailed address as to road and number. But a brother whip on a rank near Hamilton Terrace was able to tell Christabel's cabman the way to the Rosary. It was a house at which hansoms were often wanted at unholy hours between midnight and sunrise--a house whose chief hospitality took the form of chablis and oysters after the play--a house which seldom questioned poor cabby's claim or went closely into mileage--a house which deserved and commanded respectful mention on the rank. "The Rosary--yes, that's where Miss Mayne lives. Beech Tree Road--a low 'ouse with veranders all round--yer can't miss it." The cabman rattled away to Grove End Road, and thence to the superior quietude and seclusion of Beech Tree Road, where he drew up at a house with a glazed entrance. He rang the bell, and Christabel alighted before the summons was answered. "Is Miss Mayne at home?" she asked a servant in plain clothes--a servant of unquestionable respectability. "Yes, ma'am," he replied, and preceded her along a corridor, glass-roofed, richly carpeted, and with a bank of hot-house flowers on either side. Only at this ultimate moment did Christabel's courage begin to falter. She felt as if she were perhaps entering a den of vice. Innocent, guileless as she was, she had her own vague ideas about vice--exaggerated as all ignorant ideas are apt to be. She began to shiver as she walked over the dark subdued velvet pile of that shadowy corridor. If she had found Miss Mayne engaged in giving a masked ball--or last night's supper party only just finishing--or a party of young men playing blind hookey, she would hardly have been surprised--not that she knew anything about masked balls--or late suppers--or gambling--but that all these would have come within her vague notions of an evil life. "_He_ loved her," she said to herself, arguing against this new terror, "and he could not love a thoroughly wicked woman." No, the Gretchen idea--purity fallen, simplicity led astray--was more natural--but one could hardly imagine Gretchen in a house of this kind--this subdued splendour--this all-pervading air of wealth and luxury. Miss Courtenay was shown into a small morning-room--a room which on one side was all window--opening on to a garden, where some fine old trees gave an idea of space--and where the foreground showed a mass of flowers--roses--roses--roses everywhere--trailing over arches--clustering round tall iron rods--bush roses--standard roses--dwarf roses--all shining in the golden light of a westering sun.