He walked away from it, and had almost reached the end of the passage, when the door which faced him was jerked open and a girl in a green dress looked out at him. She had one hand on the door, and with the other she leaned across and clutched the frame. A long faded shawl in a mixture of colours now practically extinct hung from her shoulders and trailed upon the floor. Above it there were features which would have been pretty had they been less pinched, eyes of a startling blue, and a shining auriole of hair. The face was a child’s, but the eyes were harder than a child’s eyes should be. He had never seen anything like the hair in his life. It was the colour of bright bronze. It stood away from her head in springing waves and curled into delicate tendrils about the temples and ears.

He said, “Miss Jenny Maxwell?” and she took her hand from the door to catch at her shawl and said,

“Yes, of course. But who are you?”

There was neither shyness nor discomposure. He said,

“Your sister was bringing me to see you.”

“Where is she?”

“A bell rang. She went into a room about half way along the passage.”

Jenny nodded.

“Aunt Lydia ’s bell. It rings all the time, and she can’t be kept waiting a minute. She is Miss Crewe, and this is her house. I suppose you know that.” She took a halting step backwards. “If you were coming to see me you had better come in.”

Everything in the room was shabby. Curtains frayed at the edges. A carpet with a disappearing pattern. Old sagging chairs. A Victorian sofa darned where the upholstery showed, but for the most part hidden by the rug which Jenny had thrown back and by a litter of books and papers. She sat down, pulled the rug over her, and pointed.

“You had better have that chair. The springs want mending, but I don’t suppose you’ll go through.”