"Yes; they have been in England a few months only. I know nothing more of
her. But she is a good little thing. Pauline does not like her, but
Pauline is too critical sometimes. I notice that she is strangely lacking
in sympathy towards girls of Miss Sampson's class."

It was a long drive from Chelsea to Acacia Road, Kentish Town. Miss
Merivale knew London very little, though she had lived near it all her
life, and the dreary, respectable streets she drove through after leaving
Oxford Street behind her oppressed her even more than Whitechapel had done
in her one visit to it with Tom, the year before, to see a loan collection
of pictures. Street after street of blank, drab-faced houses--dull,
unsmiling houses! She thought of children growing up there, wan and
joyless, like plants kept out of the sun. And then two happy-eyed boys
came running by with their satchels under their arms, while a door opened
and a woman with a smiling mother-face came out to welcome them. And Miss
Merivale confessed to herself the mistake she had been making. Where love
is, even a dull London street has its sunshine.

Acacia Road was reached at last, and the cab drew up before a small
bow-windowed house that had a card, "Apartments to Let," over the hall
door. A little servant with a dirty apron and a merry face opened the
door, and two boys with bright red pinafores came rushing from the
sitting-room behind her.

Miss Sampson wasn't in, but her aunt, Mrs. M'Alister, was, the smiling
servant-maid told Miss Merivale, and led the way into the front
sitting-room. The boys ran upstairs. Miss Merivale heard them shouting to
their mother that a lady wanted her, and she sat down on a chair near the
door, trembling all over.