The rain was falling heavily when she left the house, but the clean, sharp patter on the pavements, somehow, cheered her. It was clean, it was wholesome, it would help to wash away some of the impurity from the streets. The rain, rolling in over the hills upon the Moor of Creagh and sweeping down Glenogle--how often had she welcomed its pure sting on her cheek and revelled in it! But here all was depressing, dark, dismal, and soul-crushing.
In such mood did Isla arrive at the address in Westbourne Terrace, which, in conjunction with three others, she had written on a small piece of paper and placed in her purse.
A man-servant, in a blue coat with brass buttons and a striped waistcoat, opened the door and stood, obligingly waiting to take her message.
"I have called in reference to the advertisement in the 'Morning Post' this morning. Please, can I see the lady of the house?"
The man looked doubtful, but said politely in imperfect English with a very German accent that if she would come in and sit down in the hall he would inquire.
At the moment the door of the breakfast-room at the end of the hall was opened and a lady in a very elaborate morning robe much trimmed with lace and with two black-and-white Japanese spaniels in her arms, looked out.
"Who is that, Fritz?" she asked in a high and rather fretful voice.
"Pleas'm, a young lady about the advertisement in the paper."
"Oh, she can come in here."
She re-entered the breakfast-room, and Isla, in some inward amusement, followed. She felt like a person in a play, but it said something for her courage and determination that, on the second morning of her London life, she should seek such an experience.