dressing-table before she was startled by an extraordinary sound, which appeared to proceed not only from her companion's room, but from her companion's throat. It was something she would have described, had she ever described it, as between a gurgle and a shriek, and it brought Amy Frush, after an interval of stricken stillness that gave her just time to say to herself 'Some one under her bed!' breathlessly and bravely back to the landing. She had not reached it, however, before her neighbour, bursting in, met her and stayed her.
'There's some one in my room!'
They held each other. 'But who?'
'A man.'
'Under the bed?'
'No—just standing there.'
They continued to hold each other, but they rocked. 'Standing? Where? How?'
'Why, right in the middle—before my dressing-glass.'
Amy's blanched face by this time matched her mate's, but its terror was enhanced by speculation. 'To look at himself?'
'No—with his back to it. To look at me,' poor Susan just audibly breathed. 'To keep me off,' she quavered. 'In strange clothes—of another age; with his head on one side.'
Amy wondered. 'On one side?'
'Awfully!' the refugee declared while, clinging together, they sounded each other.
This, somehow, for Miss Amy, was the convincing touch; and on it, after a moment, she was capable of the effort of darting back to close her own door. 'You'll remain then with me.'
'Oh!' Miss Susan wailed with deep assent; quite, as if, had she been a slangy person, she would have ejaculated 'Rather!' So they spent the night together; with the assumption thus marked, from the first, both that it would have been vain to confront their visitor as they didn't even pretend to each other
