as I read it, and
I am writing to you first of all. Will you let me come and see you?
I can tell you about myself much better than writing. Would tomorrow
do, in the afternoon? Please telegraph yes or no to Coburg Lodge,
Emilia Road, Tulse Hill.'

To think over this letter Mumford missed his ordinary train. It was
not exactly the kind of letter he had expected, and Emmeline shared
his doubts. The handwriting seemed just passable; there was no
orthographic error; but--refinement? This young person wrote, too,
with such singular nonchalance. And she said absolutely nothing
about her domestic circumstances. Coburg Lodge, Tulse Hill. A decent
enough locality, doubtless; but--

'There's no harm in seeing her,' said Emmeline at length. 'Send a
telegram, Clarence. Do you know, I think she _may_ be the right kind
of girl. I was thinking of someone awfully grand, and it's rather a
relief. After all, you see, you--you are in business--'

'To be sure. And this girl seems to belong to a business family. I
only wish she wrote in a more ladylike way.'

Emmeline set her house in order, filled the drawing-room with
flowers, made the spare bedroom as inviting as possible, and, after
luncheon, spent a good deal of time in adorning her person. She was
a slight, pretty woman of something less than thirty; with a good,
but pale, complexion, hair tending to auburn, sincere eyes. Her
little vanities had no roots of ill-nature; she could admire without
envy, and loved an orderly domestic life. Her husband's desire to
increase his income had rather unsettled her; she exaggerated the
importance of to-day's interview, and resolved with nervous energy
to bring it to a successful issue, if Miss Derrick should prove a
possible companion.

About four o'clock sounded the visitor's ring. From her bedroom
window Emmeline had seen Miss Derrick's approach. As the distance
from the station was only five minutes' walk, the stranger naturally
came on foot. A dark girl, and of tolerably good features; rather
dressy; with a carriage corresponding to the tone of her letter--an
easy swing; head well up and shoulders squared. 'Oh, how I _hope_
she isn't vulgar!' said Emmeline to herself. 'I don't like the
bat--I don't. And that sunshade with the immense handle.' From the
top of the stairs she heard a clear, unaffected voice: 'Mrs. Mumford
at home?' Yes, the aspirate _was_ sounded--thank goodness!

It surprised her, on entering the room, to find that Miss