lorrie in George Cannon's office. The mere sight of
the salmon-tinted paper agitated her. "Is it possible that I can be so
silly?" she thought, "over a bit of paper!" But so it was.

On a previous visit of George Cannon's to Hornsey she had kept her bed
throughout the day, afraid to meet him, ashamed to meet him,
inexplicably convinced that to meet him would be a crime against filial
piety. There were obscure grottoes in her soul which she had not had the
courage to explore candidly.

"I think," said Sarah Gailey, reflective and anxious, "I think if you
_could_ get up, it would be nicer than him seeing you here in bed."

Hilda perceived that at last she would be compelled to face George
Cannon.

CHAPTER II
THE LITTLE ROOM

I

After lunch Sarah Gailey left Hilda and Mr. Cannon in 'the little room'
together.

'The little room'--about eight feet square--had no other name; it was
always spoken of affectionately by the boarders, and by the landlady
with pride in its coziness. Situated on the first floor, over the front
part of the hall, it lay between the two principal bedrooms. Old
boarders would discover the little room to new boarders, or new boarders
would discover it for themselves, with immense satisfaction. It was the
chamber of intimacy and of confidences; it was a refuge from the public
life of the Cedars, and, to a certain extent, from the piano. Two women,
newly acquainted, and feeling a mutual attraction, would say to each
other: "Shall we go up to the little room?" "Oh yes, do let us!" And
they would climb the stairs in a fever of anticipation. "Quite the most
charming room in the house, dear Miss Gailey!" another simpering
spinster would say. Yet it contained nothing but an old carpet, two
wicker arm-chairs, a small chair, a nearly empty dwarf bookcase, an
engraving of Marie Antoinette regally facing the revolutionary mob, and
a couple of photographs of the Cedars.

Hilda sat down in one of the arm-chairs, and George Cannon in the other;
he had a small black bag which he placed on the floor by his side.
Hilda's diffidence was extreme. Throughout lunch she had scarcely
spoken; but as there had been eight people at the table, and George
Cannon had chatted with all of them, her taciturnity had passed
inconspicuous. Now she would be obliged to talk. And the sensations
which she had experienced on first meeting George Cannon in the
dining-room were renewed in a form even more acute.

She had, in