“Stand and deliver!” I laughed, stepping in front of her.  “I’ve seen nothing you’ve done since you’ve been here, and as a rule you show me all your things.  I believe they are atrocious and degrading!” Then my laughter froze.

She made a sly gesture to slip past me, and I almost decided to let her go, for the expression that flashed across her face shocked me.  She looked uncomfortable and ashamed; the color came and went a moment in he cheeks, making me think of a child detected in some secret naughtiness.  It was almost fear.

“It’s because they’re not finished then?” I said, dropping the tone of banter, “or because they’re too good for me to understand?” For my criticism of painting, she told me, was crude and ignorant sometimes.  “But you’ll let me see them later, won’t you?”

Frances, however, did not take the way of escape I offered.  She changed her mind.  She drew the portfolio from beneath her arm instead.  “You can see them if you really want to, Bill,” she said quietly, and her tone reminded me of a nurse who says to a boy just grown out of childhood, “you are old enough now to look upon horror and ugliness—­only I don’t advise it.”

“I do want to,” I said, and made to go downstairs with her.  But, instead, she said in the same low voice as before, “Come up to my room, we shall be undisturbed there.”  So I guessed that she had been on her way to show the paintings to our hostess, but did not care for us all three to see them together.  My mind worked furiously.

“Mabel asked me to do them,” she explained in a tone of submissive horror, once the door was shut, “in fact, she begged it of me.  You know how persistent she is in her quiet way.  I—­er—­had to.”

She flushed and opened the portfolio on the little table by the window, standing behind me as I turned the sketches over—­sketches of the grounds and trees and garden.  In the first moment of inspection, however, I did not take in clearly why my sister’s sense of modesty had been offended.  For my attention flashed a second elsewhere.  Another bit of the puzzle had dropped into place, defining still further the nature of what I called “the Shadow.”  Mrs. Franklyn, I now remembered, had suggested to me in the library that I might perhaps write something about the place, and I had taken it for one of her banal sentences and paid no further attention.  I realized now that it was said in earnest.  She wanted our interpretations, as expressed in our respective “talents,” painting and writing.  Her invitation was explained.  She left us to ourselves on purpose.

“I should like to tear them up,” Frances was whispering behind me with a shudder, “only I promised—­” She hesitated a moment.

“Promised not to?” I asked with a queer feeling of distress, my eyes glued to the papers.

“Promised always to show them to her first,” she finished so low I barely caught it.