Billie had been standing near the wall, inspecting a portrait of the late Mr. Josiah Appleby, of which the kindest thing one can say is that one hopes it did not do him justice. She now shrank back against this wall, as if she were trying to get through it. The edge of the portrait's frame tilted her hat out of the straight, but in this supreme moment she did not even notice it.

"Er--how do you do?" she said.

If she had not been an exceedingly pretty girl, one would have said that she spoke squeakily. The fighting spirit of the Bennetts, though it was considerable fighting spirit, had not risen to this emergency. It had ebbed out of her, leaving in its place a cold panic. She had seen this sort of thing in the movies--there was one series of pictures, The Dangers of Diana, where something of the kind had happened to the heroine in every reel--but she had not anticipated that it would ever happen to her: and consequently she had not thought out any plan for coping with such a situation. A grave error. In this world one should be prepared for everything, or where is one? The best she could do was to stand and stare at the intruder. It would have done Sam Marlowe good--he had now finished the synopsis and was skimming through the current instalment--if he could have known how she yearned for his return.