know—­that life-size one with his fat hand sprinkled with rings resting on a thick Bible and the other slipped between the buttons of a tight frock-coat.  It hangs in the dining room and rather dominates our meals.  I wish Mabel would take it down.  I think she’d like to, if she dared.  There’s not a single photograph of him anywhere, even in her own room.  Mrs. Marsh is here—­you remember her, his housekeeper, the wife of the man who got penal servitude for killing a baby or something—­you said she robbed him and justified her stealing because the story of the unjust steward was in the Bible!  How we laughed over that!  She’s just the same too, gliding about all over the house and turning up when least expected.”

Other reminiscences filled the next two sides of the letter, and ran, without a trace of punctuation, into instructions about a Salamander stove for heating my work-room in the flat; these were followed by things I was to tell the cook, and by requests for several articles she had forgotten and would like sent after her, two of them blouses, with descriptions so lengthy and contradictory that I sighed as I read them—­ “unless you come down soon, in which case perhaps you wouldn’t mind bringing them; not the mauve one I wear in the evening sometimes, but the pale blue one with lace round the collar and the crinkly front.  They’re in the cupboard—­or the drawer, I’m not sure which—­of my bedroom.  Ask Annie if you’re in doubt.  Thanks most awfully.  Send a telegram, remember, and we’ll meet you in the motor any time.  I don’t quite know if I shall stay the whole month—­alone.  It all depends....”  And she closed the letter, the italicized words increasing recklessly towards the end, with a repetition that Mabel would love to have me “for myself,” as also to have a “man in the house,” and that I only had to telegraph the day and the train....  This letter, coming by the second post, interrupted me in a moment of absorbing work, and, having read it through to make sure there was nothing requiring instant attention, I threw it aside and went on with my notes and reading.  Within five minutes, however, it was back at me again.  That restless thing called “between the lines” fluttered about my mind.  My interest in the Balkan States—­political article that had been “ordered”—­faded.  Somewhere, somehow I felt disquieted, disturbed.  At first I persisted in my work, forcing myself to concentrate, but soon found that a layer of new impressions floated between the article and my attention.  It was like a shadow, though a shadow that dissolved upon inspection.  Once or twice I glanced up, expecting to find some one in the room, that the door had opened unobserved and Annie was waiting for instructions.  I heard the buses thundering across the bridge.  I was aware of Oakley Street.

Montenegro and the blue Adriatic melted into the October haze along that depressing Embankment that aped a riverbank, and sentences from the letter flashed before my eyes and stung me.  Picking it up and reading it through more carefully, I rang the bell and told Annie to find the blouses and pack them for the post, showing her finally the written description, and resenting the superior smile with which she at once interrupted.  “I know them, sir,” and disappeared.