He looked round the room.  Not a chair was out of its place, not a speck of dust was to be seen.  The brightly-perfect polish of the table made your eyes ache; the ornaments on it looked as if they had never been touched by mortal hand; the piano was an object for distant admiration, not an instrument to be played on; the carpet made Mr. Troy look nervously at the soles of his shoes; and the sofa (protected by layers of white crochet-work) said as plainly as if in words, “Sit on me if you dare!” Mr. Troy retreated to a bookcase at the further end of the room.  The books fitted the shelves to such absolute perfection that he had some difficulty in taking one of them out.  When he had succeeded, he found himself in possession of a volume of the History of England.  On the fly-leaf he encountered another written warning:—­“This book belongs to Miss Pink’s Academy for Young Ladies, and is not to be removed from the library.”  The date, which was added, referred to a period of ten years since.  Miss Pink now stood revealed as a retired schoolmistress, and Mr. Troy began to understand some of the characteristic peculiarities of that lady’s establishment which had puzzled him up to the present time.

He had just succeeded in putting the book back again when the door opened once more, and Isabel’s aunt entered the room.

If Miss Pink could, by any possible conjuncture of circumstances, have disappeared mysteriously from her house and her friends, the police would have found the greatest difficulty in composing the necessary description of the missing lady.  The acutest observer could have discovered nothing that was noticeable or characteristic in her personal appearance.  The pen of the present writer portrays her in despair by a series of negatives.  She was not young, she was not old; she was neither tall nor short, nor stout nor thin; nobody could call her features attractive, and nobody could call them ugly; there was nothing in her voice, her expression, her manner, or her dress that differed in any appreciable degree from the voice, expression, manner, and dress of five hundred thousand other single ladies of her age and position in the world.  If you had asked her to describe herself, she would have answered, “I am a gentlewoman”; and if you had further inquired which of her numerous accomplishments took highest rank in her own esteem, she would have replied, “My powers of conversation.”  For the rest, she was Miss Pink, of South Morden; and, when that has been said, all has been said.

“Pray be seated, sir.  We have had a beautiful day, after the long-continued wet weather.  I am told that the season is very unfavorable for wall-fruit.  May I offer you some refreshment after your journey?” In these terms and in the smoothest of voices, Miss Pink opened the interview.

Mr. Troy made a polite reply, and added a few strictly conventional remarks on the beauty of the neighborhood.  Not even a lawyer could sit in Miss Pink’s presence, and hear Miss Pink’s conversation, without feeling himself called upon (in the nursery phrase) to “be on his best behavior”.