hoping she would find her room comfortable.

It was indeed a pleasant room, wearing an air of youthfulness, thanks
to its chintz curtains. The sofa was winning and the armchairs
desirable, and there were books and a reading-lamp if Evelyn should
feel disposed to draw the armchair by the fire and read for an hour
before going to bed. The writing-table itself, with its pens and its
blotting-book, and notepaper so prettily stamped, seemed intended to
inveigle the occupant of the room into correspondence with every
friend she had in the world; and Evelyn began to wonder to whom she
might write a letter as soon as Lady Ascott left the room.

The burning wood shed a pleasant odour which mingled pleasantly with
that of the dressing-table; and she wandered about the room, her
mind filled with vague meditations, studying the old engravings,
principally pictures of dogs and horses, hounds and men, going out
to shoot in bygone costumes, with long-eared spaniels to find the
game for them. There was a multitude of these pictures on the walls,
and Evelyn wondered who was her next-door neighbour. Was it Owen? Or
was he down at the end of the passage? In a house like Thornton
Grange the name of every one was put on his or her door, so that
visitors should not wander into the wrong room by accident, creating
dismay and provoking scandal. Owen, where was he? A prayer was
offered up that he might be at the other end of the house. It would
not be right if Lady Ascott had placed him in the adjoining room, it
really would not be right, and she regretted her visit. What evil
thing had tempted her into this house, where everything was an
appeal to the senses, everything she had seen since she had entered
the house--food, wine, gowns? There was, however, a bolt to her
door, and she drew it, forgetful that sin visits us in solitude, and