riend looked in on him, having sat late
into the night writing his letter to Mr. Brock. Allan went on to the end
of the first corridor, turned at right angles into a second, and, that
passed, gained the head of the great staircase. "No romance here," he
said to himself, looking down the handsomely carpeted stone stairs into
the bright modern hall. "Nothing to startle Midwinter's fidgety
nerves in this house." There was nothing, indeed; Allan's essentially
superficial observation had not misled him for once. The mansion of
Thorpe Ambrose (built after the pulling down of the dilapidated old
manor-house) was barely fifty years old. Nothing picturesque, nothing in
the slightest degree suggestive of mystery and romance, appeared in any
part of it. It was a purely conventional country house--the product of
the classical idea filtered judiciously through the commercial English
mind. Viewed on the outer side, it presented the spectacle of a modern
manufactory trying to look like an ancient temple. Viewed on the inner
side, it was a marvel of luxurious comfort in every part of it, from
basement to roof. "And quite right, too," thought Allan, sauntering
contentedly down the broad, gently graduated stairs. "Deuce take all
mystery and romance! Let's be clean and comfortable, that's what I say."

Arrived in the hall, the new master of Thorpe Ambrose hesitated, and
looked about him, uncertain which way to turn next.

The four reception-rooms on the ground-floor opened into the hall, two
on either side. Allan tried the nearest door on his right hand at a
venture, and found himself in the drawing-room. Here the first sign of
life appeared, under life's most attractive form. A young girl was in
solitary possession of the drawing-room. The duster in her hand appeared
to associate her with the domestic duties of the house; but at that
particular moment she was occupied in asserting the rights of nature
over the obligations of service. In other words, she was attentively
contemplating her own face in the glass over the mantelpiece.

"There! there! don't let me frighten you," said Allan, as the girl
started away from the glass, and stared at him in unutterable confusion.
"I quite agree with you, my dear; your face is well worth looking at.
Who are you? Oh, the housemaid. And what's your name? Susan, eh? Come!
I like your name, to begin with. Do you know who I am, Susan? I'm your
master, though you may not think it. Your character? Oh, yes!