The room was the ordinary lodging-house sitting-room; but though there was
a litter of toys on the worn carpet, it had evidently been carefully swept
and dusted that morning, and there was a brown jug filled with fresh
daffodils on the centre table. On the side table near Miss Merivale there
was a pile of books. She looked at the titles as she waited for a step on
the stairs--_The Civil Service Geography, Hamblin Smith's Arithmetic_, one
or two French Readers, a novel by George MacDonald, and a worn edition of
Longfellow's Poems. Miss Merivale wondered if they all belonged to Rhoda.

She was not kept waiting very long. Almost before she had finished looking
at the books she heard someone coming down the stairs, and the door opened
to admit a tall, angular woman, whose brown hair was thickly streaked with
grey. Miss Merivale found herself unable to begin at once to make the
inquiries she had come to make, and fell back on the programmes she wanted
typewritten. Mrs. M'Alister eagerly promised that Rhoda would undertake
the work. She had not a typewriter of her own, but a friend would lend the
use of hers, and Miss Merivale might rely on the work being done
punctually.

"It is very kind of Miss Desborough to recommend Rhoda," she said in her
anxious voice. "It is difficult to get work in London, we find."

"You have lately come from Australia, have you not?" asked Miss Merivale
gently.

Mrs. M'Alister was too simple-minded to discern the profound agitation
that lay beneath Miss Merivale's quiet manner. And the kind voice and
kind, gentle face of her visitor led her to be more confidential than was
her wont with strangers.