Kelson said, noticing with approval that
the girl had well-kept white hands, and that her clothes, though not
particularly expensive, were _chic_, and up-to-date. "Do you want me
only to interpret this poem, or shall I tell you something about
yourself first?" "By all means tell me something about myself first--if you can,"
Lilian Rosenberg said. "I want to get as much as I can out of you. Your fees are exorbitant." "Very well, then," Kelson rejoined with a smile. "Don't blame me if I
tell you too much. You were born at sea. Being a troublesome girl at
home, you were sent to a boarding-school, where you distinguished
yourself in various ways, and last but not least, by making the
headmistress--a married woman--desperately jealous. This led to your
being removed. Removed is a more delicate term than 'expelled.' Am I
right?" "Yes! I believe you are inspired by the devil." "Shall I go on?" "Yes--I think so. Yes, go on, please." "You came home. Your mother died. Your father married again. You
disliked your stepmother--you considered she ill treated you." "She did!" "I won't dispute it. At all events you had your revenge. You pretended
to commit suicide, and wrote several letters--to the police amongst
others--declaring that you were about to drown yourself owing to the
cruelty of your stepmother. And so cleverly did you manage it, that
every one believed you were drowned, and blamed your stepmother
accordingly. Changing your name to Lilian Rosenberg you came direct to
London. For some time you worked in a milliner's shop in Beauchamp
Gardens, and then you set up as a manicurist in Woodstock Street. Among your clients was the wife of the Vicar of St. Katherine's, Kew,
who took a great liking to you--you have extraordinary personal
magnetism. Unable, however, to do more than pay your way at legitimate
manicuring you--"

"That will do," Lilian Rosenberg cried, a faint flow of colour
pervading her cheeks. "That will do! Explain the verses." "As you will!" Kelson said, "but mind, I don't insist on the necessity
of your paying the slightest heed to my explanation. According to the
usual method of interpreting dreams, the valley of flowers is
symbolical of innocence and self-restraint--of that path in life with
which the goody-goodies say every young lady should be satisfied. "The hunter is representative of the love of change and excitement;
the horse--of self-indulgence. The misty moon means ruin, the
metamorphosis into the crawling phantasm--death. Leave the path of
virtue, and give way to self-indulgence and a craving for everlasting
change and excitement, and a miserable ending will be your mead--and
has been the mead of all others who have done the same thing." "Then the dream is a warning?" Kelson was about to reply, when the door opened, and Hamar, with an
apology for intruding, beckoned to him. He spoke with him for several moments relative to a matter of some
consequence, and then, glancing at Miss Rosenberg, and drawing Kelson
still further aside, whispered, "Let me caution you again, Matt. On no
account let your soft feelings with regard to the other sex get the
better of you. Remember it is imperative for us to do evil not
good--to lead our clients into temptation, not out of it. I am doing
my best to follow the injunctions of the Unknown, but we must all work
in harmony--that is the most vital point in our compact, and you know
if we do not keep the compact something frightful will happen to us. I
can't impress this fact on you too much. Only yesterday I had to pull
you up for giving good advice to a lady. Damn your good advice, give
bad--bad advice, I say; anything that will do people harm--no matter
whether they are ugly or pretty--and if you are not jolly well
careful, pretty girls will be your--and our--undoing. I see you have a
pretty girl here now--and from what I can read in her face, she is not
a saint. Rub it in to her--rub it into her well--persuade her to be a
bigger sinner still. Now I can't wait to say more, I must go." "I asked you," Lilian Rosenberg said, as Kelson resumed his seat, "if
the dream was a warning?" "No," Kelson said, "I shouldn't take it as such. Despite the rather
peculiar form it took, I am inclined to think it isn't a dream with
any real significance--but merely a chance dream--a dream compounded
of sayings and actions of the past that have come back to you all
higgledy-piggledy, as they so often do in dreams. You learned a lot of
poetry I suppose when you were at school?" "Yes, but none like this." "No, I didn't suppose so, but the mere fact that your mind was at one
time used to verses--acquainted with metre and rhythm, would account
for the form adopted by your dream. I assure you it was purely
chance--and that there is no significance in it! You are on the look
out for work, is it not so?" "I am," Lilian Rosenberg said. "Can you tell me where to go to get
it?" "I am just thinking," Kelson replied, "I believe my partner, Mr.
Hamar, wants a secretary. I can't, of course, say whether you would
suit him. Do you type?" "I can type and do shorthand," Lilian Rosenberg replied eagerly, "and
I can correspond in German and French." "And the salary? Would two hundred a year do?" "Yes," after a slight pause, "I could make it do. I should want one
half-day holiday--from one o'clock--every week; and Sundays--and three
weeks' holiday in the summer, and one at Christmas, and of course, the
usual Bank Holidays." "I see!" Kelson said thoughtfully; "you want plenty of time for
amusement. Well! I will speak about it to Mr. Hamar, and if you leave
me your address I will give it him. How nicely you keep your hands." "I manicure them every day," Lilian Rosenberg said; then looking up at
him from under the long lashes which swept her cheeks, she added, "You
won't forget to tell Mr. Hamar about me, will you? I am very anxious
to get a post. You don't know what it is to be hard up, do you?" The earnest, pleading expression in her long, dark eyes appealed to
Kelson as nothing else had ever appealed to him. Since his arrival in
London, he had seen many pretty faces, many beautiful eyes, but
assuredly none so lovely as these. And what features! what teeth! what
lips! what a chin! what a figure! It seemed to him that she was not
like an ordinary girl, that she was not of the same composition as any
of the girls he had ever met; that she was something hardly
human--something elfish, something generated by the beautiful English
woods and glades, filled with the soft glamour of the moon and stars. And all the while he was thinking thus, his heart rising in rebellion
against the words of Hamar, the girl continued gazing up at him, and
toying with the rings on her slender, milk-white fingers. At last he dare look at her no longer, but stammering out his promise
to do all he could to get her the vacant post, he pressed her hand
gently, and bade her good morning.