It was pretty hard work. She got them done, however, before Sydney's return. Then, feeling somewhat better pleased with herself, but still more depressed than she could account for (she had yet to learn how quickly, to a nature like hers, unaccustomed excitement does the work of physical fatigue), she sat down on the hearth-rug, cowering into the fire, to listen for her sister's ring. The room was small and plainly furnished. Its bookshelves and globes and old cottage piano told their own story; yet, as Eugenia's eyes glanced round it, noticing dreamily every little familiar detail: an ink-stain on the carpet--she remembered it for ever so many years--it had been caused by an inkstand overthrow, one Saturday afternoon that Frank Thurston was spending there; a penknife-cut on the wax-cloth of the table, which had drawn forth stern reprimand from kind "Mademoiselle," and cost little Eugenia many tears; a picture on the wall--a French engraving of one of Scheffer's earlier paintings, which had taken many a month's joint pocket-money to obtain. (How well she remembered the day it was hung up!) As each well-known object in turn caught her glance, she owned to herself she had been very happy in that little old room. Would a day ever come on which she should wish herself back again in its safe, homely shelter? She could not tell what had put all these strange fancies in her head to-day. What was coming over her? It was too absurd to think that one short evening's experience had changed her so. Oh, if only Sydney would come in! It seemed years since they had been talking together about what they should wear at Mrs Dalrymple's, and yet it had been only yesterday morning. A ring at last--yes, it was the hall bell. Eugenia was darting forward, but a sudden thought stopped her. It might not, after all, be Sydney. It was just about the time a visitor--a stranger especially--would choose for a formal call. Could it be possible that her father--she had known him do odd, unexpected things of the kind sometimes--could he have asked Captain Chancellor to call? He was a much younger man than her father, and would not stand on ceremony in such a case; and she had seen them talking together, and shaking hands cordially at parting. It was just possible. The mere idea set her heart beating, and sent the blood rushing furiously to her cheeks. She opened the school-room door cautiously, a very little, and stood with it in her hand while she watched the servant-maid's slow progress across the hall. The door opened at last. A man's voice--a gentleman's voice. Could it be he? "Then, if Mr Laurence is not at home yet, can I see either of the young ladies?"