She was too well-trained to keep me on the doorstep or even in the passage, though I daresay she would have preferred that I remained in the road whilst she went to hold a council with her mistress. She slightly smiled as she said, "What name, Sir?" "Never mind my name," I replied. "Simply say a gentleman has called to see her." She left the room. The apartment into which she had conducted me was close, though the windows were open. The furniture was old, but tasteful enough. A piano stood in a corner, and on a chair was a pile of music. I thought of my bouquet as my eye rested on some flowers in a vase on the table. On either side the mirror, over the chimney-piece, was a pencil drawing, skilfully done, representing, the one on the left, a calm at sea, an iceberg on the horizon, an albatross suspended over the wreck of a vessel, whose broken masts, trailing ropes and vacant decks were full of the poetry of desolation: the one on the right, a woman seated at a table, with her face buried in her hands, a crucifix before her. I drew near, and read at the corner of each drawing the word "Geraldine." A longer interval than what I had anticipated elapsed before Mrs. Fraser presented herself. I was eyeing a little gilt dial with some degree of impatience, when I heard a sound behind me. I turned rapidly. Mrs. Fraser stood at the table, her black eyes fixed on me with a look half of alarm, half of embarrassment. Their startled beauty was smiting. Her yellow hair was combed high, but silken threads strayed over her brow and behind her ears. Her lips were compressed. I rose and made her a bow. "Pray be seated," she said in a low voice. "My servant tells me you have called on a matter of business." "Not exactly _business_," I answered. "But first, you must allow me to introduce myself to you as Mr. Thorburn, your neighbour." She regarded me earnestly. I paused: another moment's silence would have embarrassed me, so I said hardily: "I shall wholly depend on your kindness not to make me feel more painfully the trying position in which I have placed myself. The intrusion," continued I, nervousness making my apology elaborate, "will only seem all the more unwarrantable when I tell you that I am fully aware of your love of solitude and your aversion to intruders. But"---- She interrupted me, turning her back to the window, the better to see me, and not to be seen: "You sent me a bouquet the other day?" "I ventured to take the liberty." "You must have thought my rejection rude. It was meant to be rude. How, Sir, knowing my aversion to intruders, _could_ you have taken that liberty? Did you think it would lead to an introduction?" Her language gave me confidence. Had she sweetly thanked me for my attention or apologised for her rudeness, she would, I think, have confounded me too much for my wits. But this tone of hers brought her down to my level. I could meet her on equal ground.