The blue jowl, the fat-lidded eyes—now merry, now alert, now tungsten hard—the bullet head, the pudgy fingers and the square-toed shoes were all in conformation with the doctor's olden mental picture. But at length, there was a click, and with a swish, the panel of painted books swung outward from the wall. She met the keen grey eyes of a clean-shaven man, between forty and fifty, quietly dressed in professional attire. The chance had gone. Spurling's sooty imp, Caliban. “The conventions do not matter one little bit. It was a beautiful place that she had found, a round cave by a small stream. To-night she had a curious feeling that she stood upon the threshold of some change. You are not going anywhere but to the Tredgold College.
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