It was barely half-past three, yet two lamps were already burning under elaborate pink shades, and there was a profusion of flowers on the mantelpiece and on the small tables with which the floor was crowded. The piano stood open, with a litter of torn sheets on the top, and there were photographs--photographs everywhere--of extraordinary-looking people, who all seemed to write their names underneath with fat quill-pens and many dashes. The lady with the little ring in the middle of her forehead was "Mabs;" the one swinging in a hammock was "Bella;" "Fanny" smirked from a bower of palms, and wore ropes and ropes of pearls round her neck. There was a framed photograph on the wall with a signature like the rest. From across the room Hope recognised a familiar name, and was about to rise to study it close at hand, when swish-swish came the rustle of silken skirts, the door opened, and Miss Caldecott herself made her appearance. CHAPTER SIX. HOPE'S FIRST VENTURE. Miss Caldecott was tall and stout, had wavy hair and arched eyebrows, and wore a slightly _decollete_ gown of blue silk, a trifle soiled if you looked at it in a critical spirit, but wonderfully elaborate and becoming. The broad, beaming face was young, and but for its undue size would have been strikingly pretty. She looked at the sisters, showing her straight, white teeth in the most friendly of smiles, and squeezed Hope's hand until she winced with the pain. "How do you do, dear?" she said. "How d'do, dear?" to Philippa. "Wretched day, isn't it? So good of you to come! Sit down and rest. I always flop on the sofa the moment I come in. So tiring dragging about, isn't it? But you are thin. Wait until you get fat like me." Her shoulders shook; her eyes danced; the dimples dipped in her round, pink cheeks. Philippa and Hope were obliged to laugh in sympathy, but it was very embarrassing; she evidently mistook them for old friends. Hope cleared her throat and began the rehearsed explanation. "I am Hope Charrington, and this is my sister. You knew my father--by name at least. You used to sing some of his songs." Miss Caldecott looked blank; then she began to laugh. It appeared that she was always laughing. "Then I didn't know you after all! Heaps of people come to see me, and I've the silliest memory--always forget what I ought to remember. Doesn't make much difference, does it? I know you _now_. Sung your father's songs, did I? Charrington! Charrington! Don't remember. What were they called, do you know?" Hope's heart sank. She had expected the name to act as an open-sesame, and it was not even recognised. "One was `A Song of Summer,'" she said slowly, "and another `Into the Night.'"