She had apparently a wide knowledge of French fiction, for she explained how a friend of hers, an old schoolfellow, who had married a French baron and lived in Paris, sent her regularly all the notable novels. Of English fiction, too, she was evidently a constant reader, for she told me much about recent novels that I was unaware of, and criticised style in a manner which betrayed a deep knowledge of her subject. "One would almost think you were a lady novelist, or a book-reviewer," I remarked, in response to a sweeping condemnation which she made regarding the style of a much-belauded writer. "Well, personally, I like books with some grit in them," she declared. "I can't stand either the so-called problem novel, or a story interlarded with dialect. If any one wants nasty problems, let them spend a few shillings in the works of certain French writers, who turn out books on the most unwholesome themes they can imagine, and fondly believe themselves realists. We don't want these _queue-de-siecle_ works in England. Let us stick to the old-fashioned story of love, adventure, or romance. English writers are now beginning to see the mistake they once made in trying to follow the French style, and are turning to the real legitimate novel of action--the one that interests and grips from the first page to the last." She spoke sensibly, and I expressed my entire accord with her opinion. But this discussion was only in order to hide our exchange of confidences uttered in an undertone while Hickman and the two ladies were chatting at the further end of the room. All the time I was longing to get a sight of the interior of the adjoining apartment, the room whence had burst forth that woman's agonised cry in the stillness of the night. I racked my brain to find some means of entering there, but could devise none. A guest can hardly wander over his hostess's house on the first occasion he receives an invitation. Besides, to betray any interest in the house might, I reflected, arouse some suspicion. To be successful in these inquiries would necessitate the most extreme caution. The fragrant odour of _peau d'Espagne_ exhaled by her chiffons seemed to hold me powerless. The gilt clock with its swinging girl had already struck eleven on its silver bell, and been re-echoed by another clock in the hall playing the Westminster chimes, when suddenly Mrs Anson, with a book in her hand, looked across to her daughter, saying-- "Mabel, dear, I've left my glasses on the table in the library. Will you kindly fetch them for me?" In an instant I saw my chance, and, jumping to my feet, offered to obtain them. At first she objected, but finding me determined, said-- "The library is the next room, there. You'll find them on the writing-table. Mother always leaves them there. It's really too bad to thus make a servant of you. I'll ring for Arnold." "No, no," I protested, and at once went eagerly in search of them. CHAPTER SIXTEEN. THE INNER ROOM.