Travis caught her hand in the dark and she clung to him. A hound stepped out from under the steps and licked her other hand. She jumped and gave a little shriek. Then, when she understood, she stroked the poor thing's head, its eyes staring hungrily in the dim light.
She followed Travis up the steps. Within, he struck a match, and she saw the emptiness of it all—the broken plastering and the paper torn off in spots, a dirty, littered floor, and an old sofa and a few other things left, too worthless to be moved.
She held up bravely, but tears were running down her cheeks. Travis struck another match to light a lamp which had been forgotten and left on the mantel. He attempted to light it, but something huge and black swept by and extinguished it. Helen shrieked again, and coming up timidly seized his arm in the dark. He could feel her heart beating excitedly against it.
He struck another match.
“Don't be uneasy, it is nothing but an owl.”
The light was turned up and showed an owl sitting on the top of an old tester that had formerly been the canopy of her grandmother's bed.
The owl stared stupidly at them—turning its head solemnly.
Helen laughed hysterically.
“Now, sit down on the old sofa,” he said. “There is much to say to you. We are now on the verge of a tragedy or a farce, or—”
“Sometimes plays end well, where all are happy, do they not?” she asked, smiling hysterically and sitting by him, but looking at the uncanny owl beyond. She was silent, then: