place. This is the house: come in."

With this doubtful prospect in view I followed my peremptory guide
from the narrow street into what appeared to be a spacious court, but
as the only light it received was from a blinking candle in the window
of the conciergerie, I could not determine. After exchanging some
cabalistic sentences with a toothless old woman, the proprietor of the
candle, Afra turned to the right, and walking a few steps came to a
door opening on a stairway, which we mounted. I can think of nothing
black enough for comparison with the darkness surrounding us. At last
a faint glimmer showed an old lamp standing in a corner of a hall bare
and carpetless. A series of doors flanked the place, looking to my
unaccustomed eyes all alike, but Afra without a moment's hesitation
went to one of them and knocked. It was opened by a lady, who smiled
and said, "Enter. You are just in time: school is over and the model
about going."

I found myself in a high-ceiled room, at one end of which was
suspended a row of perhaps a dozen lamps. Here, at least, there was-no
lack of light: it required some moments to accustom our eyes to the
sudden contrast. The yellow blaze was directed by reflectors into the
space immediately beneath the lamps, which left the rest of the room
pleasantly tempered. Some easels, a few chairs and screens, plaster
casts on shelves, sketches in all stages of progress on the wall,
a tea-kettle singing over a bright fire in a stove, and a curtain
enclosing a corner used as a bedroom, completed the list of furniture.
It was a night-school for lady artists. The class had finished for the
evening, and a number of the students were moving about or seated near
the fire, talking in an unlimited number of languages.