The Rake's Progress

by Marjorie Bowen

"I will come."

"At once," whispered Miss Boyle.

"Yes; I will fetch my cloak."

She went softly into the bedchamber, closing the door after her, and Selina stood leaning against the mantelpiece, fastening her pelisse over her grey dress.

It had been a cloudy day, but now the sun was shining fitfully through the long window on to the worn furniture and dark walls. A straight beam fell across a row of prints in black frames that hung opposite. Miss Boyle raised her eyes and looked at them.

The title, engraved finely beneath each subject, seemed to start out and be written on the sunlight:

"THE RAKE'S PROGRESS."

Mr. Hogarth's terrible pictures; she had seen them and shuddered over them before.

"The Rake's Progress."

"Susannah!" she cried on a sobbing breath.