Doctor Glasson pulled out a watch and compared it with the clock on the
mantelshelf. While he did so Tilda stole a look up at his face, and
more than ever it seemed to her to resemble a double trap--its slit of a
mouth constructed to swallow anything that escaped between nose and
chin.

"Your aunt is far from punctual. You are sure she means to call?"

"Sure," answered Tilda still hardily. "'Twelve-thirty' was her last
words when she left me at the doctor's--my 'ip bein' 'urt, sir, through
tumblin' out of a nomnibus, three weeks ago. But you never can depend
on 'er to a few minutes up 'an down. She gets into the streets,
watchin' the fashions, an' that carries 'er away. P'r'aps, sir, I 'd
better go back into the street and 'ave a look for her."

"I think you had better wait here for her," said Doctor Glasson,
shutting his lips with a snap. "There are some picture-books in the
drawing-room."

He led the way. The drawing-room lay at the back of the house--an
apartment even more profoundly depressing than the one she had left.
Its one important piece of furniture was a circular table of rosewood
standing in the centre of the carpet under a brass gaselier, of which
the burnish had perished in patches; and in the centre of the table
stood a round-topped glass case containing a stuffed kestrel, with a
stuffed lark prostrate under its talons and bleeding vermilion wax.
Around this ornament were disposed, as the Doctor had promised, a number
of albums and illustrated books, one of which he chose and placed it in
her hands, at the same time bringing forward one of a suite of rosewood