She passed into the inner room. To her amazement, in the solid wall of books before her there was a door, which stood ajar. Beyond it was a light. The voices were in the room beyond the open door. She went forward quickly, striking against a table as she went. Something fell with a loud noise. The whispering—it was not much more than that—went on undisturbed. She was at the door. With her hand upon her frightened heart she stood, looking in amazement. The room into which she looked was a stately long room. It was lit by three hanging chandeliers in which were many candles. It had an air of old-fashioned elegance with its gilt couches and tabourets covered in a Pompadour silk. The walls and ceilings were painted with Watteau shepherds and shepherdesses and wreaths of flowers. The curtains of the long windows were of the same silk as the chair-covers. She noticed the colour of the silk—a faded delicate blue. At the moment, she was not aware that she noticed any of these things. Her conscious self was only aware of two people clasped in each other’s arms by the fireplace at the far end of the room. The Beloved—just as he was in the picture—and a childishly young girl, her face lifted to his. There was something of wild sweetness about the girl, in her bunched-up white frock and scarlet ribbons. Her dark hair fell in a maze of curls—like—was it ‘The Parson’s Daughter’ of Romney? Something as familiar as that. They were entirely absorbed in each other. The girl’s white arms were flung about the neck of the Beloved. Esther Denison forgot that she was spying. She stood against the darkness of the room, watching them with distended eyes. Was there some sickness of envy in her heart? The Beloved made so perfect a lover, and these days were so drab. ‘Edouard! mon Edouard!’ It was the girl who spoke in a passionate whisper. ‘Hist!’ he said, turning about in a startled way. ‘Did you hear a sound?’ The girl dropped her arms from about his neck. She seemed to listen. She grew pale, clasping her hands together and looking at him. She was very young, although she had the soft roundness of young maternity about her childish figure. ‘Mon ami!’ she began, panting. ‘It is nothing,’ he said with a little laugh. ‘A mouse in the wainscotting. The place is alive with them. We have an hour yet before dawn.’ The lights were broken up, wavering. Some queer unreality was coming over the scene. There were voices, the murmuring of many waters in Esther’s ears. She felt like some one coming back from a great distance to the light, travelling slowly, painfully. Then she was aware of something familiar, comforting. It was the face of the librarian—a good, strong, reassuring face, something to hold on to in the medley of her thoughts that made the world insubstantial. The room was full of grey light, beyond the one lamp which some one had thought of lighting. ‘Are you better, darling?’