The 15th of June was warm and sultry; we had been invited to spend the evening at the adjoining vicarage; Dora had a headache, her mother was a chronic invalid, and so—willy-nilly—I went alone.
It was a stupid affair: mediocre music, still more mediocre supper—and—BRIDGE!
Fancy Bridge in a sleepy country Parsonage, fancy Bridge anywhere! I hate Bridge!
The guests were of the usual sort, prudish, prosy and plain; a widow and twins, the Miss Somebodies of Somewhere; a curate, a doctor and a lawyer! What (with the exception of the last) could be more respectable, what more dull—deadly dull?
They were all (the men, I mean) very anxious I should play cards, but for once in a way I made myself positively disagreeable—and sat—alone!
Eleven o’clock came. It was time to go! I rose with alacrity, omitting, I believe, in the intensity of joy, the formal expressions of regret.
The vicar accompanied me as far as the gates; bidding me a bland good-night, he retraced his steps with a sigh of relief. Mrs. Maitland had left a light burning in the hall. I turned it out, and taking up my candle proceeded to my bedroom and was beginning to undress when a strange thing happened.
My bedroom door (which I felt positively certain I had locked) slowly opened and a man peered in.
I can see him now—strong, regular features with piercing dark and somewhat sinister eyes that were in marked contrast to the iron-grey brows and wavy, neatly parted hair. The chin was square, the head well shaped; he was a handsome man, yet he did not please me!
I was frightened.