My mind worked furiously.
"Mabel asked me to do them," she explained in a tone of submissive
horror, once the door was shut, "in fact, she begged it of me. You know
how persistent she is in her quiet way. I--er--had to."
She flushed and opened the portfolio on the little table by the window,
standing behind me as I turned the sketches over--sketches of the
grounds and trees and garden. In the first moment of inspection,
however, I did not take in clearly why my sister's sense of modesty had
been offended. For my attention flashed a second elsewhere. Another bit
of the puzzle had dropped into place, defining still further the nature
of what I called "the Shadow." Mrs. Franklyn, I now remembered, had
suggested to me in the library that I might perhaps write something
about the place, and I had taken it for one of her banal sentences and
paid no further attention. I realized now that it was said in earnest.
She wanted our interpretations, as expressed in our respective
"talents," painting and writing. Her invitation was explained. She left
us to ourselves on purpose.
"I should like to tear them up," Frances was whispering behind me with a
shudder, "only I promised--" She hesitated a moment.
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