“Oh no,” said the artist; “it's a studio. The light's all wrong. I wonder if you would mind standing just as you are for one second; it would help me a lot!”
He moved back and curved his hand over his eyes, and through Mrs. Pendyce there passed a shiver.
'Why doesn't George open the door?' she thought. 'What—what is this man doing?'
The artist dropped his hand.
“Thanks so much!” he said. “I'll knock again. There! that would raise the dead!”
And he laughed.
An unreasoning terror seized on Mrs. Pendyce.
“Oh,” she stammered, “I must get in— I must get in!”
She took the knocker herself, and fluttered it against the door.
“You see,” said the artist, “they're all alike; these knockers are as stiff as pokers.”