Embrance Clemon sat writing in a snug room on the second floor of a house in an old-fashioned London street. A geranium stood on a flower-stand near the window; the walls were painted brown, and the carpet had faded into a comfortable insignificance. Embrance was just twenty-four. She had come to London three years ago, on the strength of a promise of two pupils, and, behold! the pupils had multiplied rapidly, and she now had as many lessons as she could manage. She had been brought up by an aunt in the west of England; she had been educated at a high school, where she had successfully passed all the examinations that were open to her, and she was thoroughly happy in her present work. In very truth, she stood alone in the world. A few months ago, Mrs. Clemon (the aunt who had bestowed upon her such good care) had set sail for New Zealand, to join her only son, who was a farmer. She would fain have taken Embrance with her, but there were two insurmountable difficulties in the way: a lack of funds, and the young farmer’s desire to marry his cousin, as soon as he should be in a position to support a wife. Embrance liked him, but she did not like him well enough to consent to this arrangement; she therefore decided to remain in London, and Mrs. Clemon, after some fretting, had been induced to look upon the plan with approval. The years of work in the smoke and fog had not done more than tone down the roses in Embrance’s cheeks; her hair, simply drawn back and plaited to her head, was that shade of brown that most people call black; she had kindly brown eyes, a large mouth, and a smile that won the hearts of her pupils at once, and caused their elder sisters to say that, after all, Miss Clemon was not so plain when you came to talk to her. Certainly, Miss Clemon was very little given to thinking about her appearance. It was, as Mrs. Clemon had always maintained, a pity. The grey gown that she wore, with a stiff collar, was singularly unbecoming to her; it was, indeed, warm and scrupulously neat, but when you had said that, you had come to an end of its praises. It was hideous. At last, Embrance put down her pen and looked at the clock; it was getting late, and the tea-things were still uncleared from one end of the table. The street was very quiet, and she heard the postman’s knock next door. “I wish somebody would write to me,” she said, aloud.