In the meantime, and before she had time to formulate her plans--which, indeed, were but in their inception--Mrs. Tice came over, bag and baggage, to play the part of dragon at the Red House. Dora was glad to welcome her within its walls; not only because she promised to stand a bulwark of respectability against Joad, but also because Mrs. Tice might reveal by accident something of Edermont's past. The conversation at Canterbury had shown Dora very plainly that some time or another Mrs. Tice had been acquainted with the recluse; and that such acquaintance must have been prior to his purchase of the Red House. At that period had been engendered the terror which had haunted the poor creature, and Mrs. Tice might have some inkling of its nature. The old housekeeper, however, was not to be cajoled into reminiscences of the past. She kept a guard over her tongue, and resolutely avoided all Dora's hints and significant remarks. It was quite a week before Dora could induce her to converse on the subject at all, and then she spoke in an ambiguous fashion. Life at that moment seemed to Dora to resemble a theatre with the curtain down. If she could induce Mrs. Tice to raise the curtain, what shadowy drama of the past might not be performed! Seven days after the arrival of Mrs. Tice she lifted the curtain a little--a very little--but revealed enough to excite the liveliest curiosity in the girl. It was after nine o'clock, and as usual Joad had been turned out to have his supper, and talk classics with Mr. Pride, the schoolmaster. The gates were locked, the shutters of the windows were closed, and Mrs. Tice was seated in Dora's own sitting-room, with a basket of work before her. Dora sat by the one window, which had not yet been shut, and the pale light of the evening floated into the room, to mingle with the dim radiance of the solitary candle which illuminated the busy fingers of the housekeeper. Meg Gance was in her kitchen, resting after the labours of the day, so the two women were quite alone. Suddenly Dora yawned, and stretched out her hands. "Heigh-ho!" said she in a wearied tone. "How long is this going on, I wonder?" "What are you referring to, Miss Carew?" asked the housekeeper in her pleasant voice--"to your life here?" "Yes; to my lonely and miserable life. I feel simply wretched." "Do not say that, my dear young lady. You have health, and youth, and many blessings." "No doubt," replied Dora scornfully; "but I have lost the chief of my blessings." "You mean Mr. Allen?" said the old lady in an embarrassed tone. "Yes, I do, Mrs. Tice. And since he has left me, I do not see why I should not accept the attentions of Mr. Lambert Joad. The wretched old man worships the ground I walk on." "Of course you are jesting?" said Mrs. Tice, with an uneasy smile; "but I see that Mr. Joad admires you. More's the pity." "Why 'more's the pity'?"