to give Troy the usual hostessesâ tips on internal topography. Troy wondered if the nearest bathroom was at the top of another tower or at the end of some interminable corridor. Impossible to tug the embroidered bell-pull and cause one of those aged maids to climb the stairs! She decided to give up her bath in favour of Mrs Siddons, the wash-stand and a Victorian can of warm water which had been left beside it.
She had an hour before dinner. It was pleasant, after the severely rationed fires of Tatlerâs End, to dress leisurely before this sumptuous blaze. She made the most of it, turning over in her mind the events of the day and sorting out her impressions of the Ancreds. Queer Thomas, she decided, was, so far, the best of the bunch, though the two young things were pleasant enough. Was there an understanding between them and had Sir Henry objected? Was that the reason for Fenellaâs outburst? For the rest: Pauline appeared to be suffering from a general sense of personal affront, Millamant was an unknown quantity, while her Cedric was frankly awful. And then, Sonia! Troy giggled. Sonia really was a bit thick.
Somewhere outside in the cold, a deep-toned clock struck eight. The fire had died down. She might as well begin her journey to the hall. Down the winding stair she went, wondering whose room lay beyond a door on the landing. Troy had no sense of direction. When she reached the first long corridor she couldnât for the life of her remember whether she should turn left or right. A perspective of dark crimson carpet stretched away on each hand, and at intervals the corridor was lit by pseudo-antique candelabra. âOh, well,â thought Troy and turned to the right. She passed four doors and read their legends: â Duse â (that was Fenellaâs room), â Bernhardt â (Paulineâs), â Terry ,â â Lady Bancroft ,â and, near the end of the passage, the despised â Bracegirdle. â Troy did not remember seeing any of these names on her way up to her tower. âBlast!â she thought, âIâve gone wrong.â But she went on uncertainly. The corridor led at right-angles into another, at the far end of which she saw the foot of a flight of stairs like those of her own tower. Poor Troy was certain that she had looked down just such a vista on her way up. âBut I suppose,â she thought, âit must have been its opposite number. From outside, the damn place looked as if it was built round a sort of quadrangle, with a tower at the middle and ends of each wing. In that case, if I keep on turning left, oughtnât I to come back to the picture gallery?â
As she hesitated, a door near the foot of the stairs opened slightly, and a magnificent cat walked out into the passage.
He was white, with a tabby saddle on his back, long haired and amber eyed. He paused and stared at Troy. Then, wafting his tail slightly, he paced slowly towards her. She stooped and waited for him. After some deliberation he approached, examined her hand, bestowed upon it a brief cold thrust of his nose, and continued on his way, walking in the centre of the crimson carpet and still elegantly wafting his tail.
âAnd one other thing,â said a shrill voice beyond the open door, âif you think Iâm going to hang round here like a bloody extra with the family handing me out the bird in fourteen different positions youâve got another think coming.â
A deep voice rumbled unintelligibly.
âI know all about that, and it makes no difference. Nobodyâs going to tell me I lack refinement and get away with it. They treat me as if I had one of those things in the strip ads. I kept my temper down there because I wasnât going to let them see I minded. What do they think they are? My God, do they think itâs any catch living in a mausoleum with a couple of old tats and a kid that ought to be labelled âCrazy
She had an hour before dinner. It was pleasant, after the severely rationed fires of Tatlerâs End, to dress leisurely before this sumptuous blaze. She made the most of it, turning over in her mind the events of the day and sorting out her impressions of the Ancreds. Queer Thomas, she decided, was, so far, the best of the bunch, though the two young things were pleasant enough. Was there an understanding between them and had Sir Henry objected? Was that the reason for Fenellaâs outburst? For the rest: Pauline appeared to be suffering from a general sense of personal affront, Millamant was an unknown quantity, while her Cedric was frankly awful. And then, Sonia! Troy giggled. Sonia really was a bit thick.
Somewhere outside in the cold, a deep-toned clock struck eight. The fire had died down. She might as well begin her journey to the hall. Down the winding stair she went, wondering whose room lay beyond a door on the landing. Troy had no sense of direction. When she reached the first long corridor she couldnât for the life of her remember whether she should turn left or right. A perspective of dark crimson carpet stretched away on each hand, and at intervals the corridor was lit by pseudo-antique candelabra. âOh, well,â thought Troy and turned to the right. She passed four doors and read their legends: â Duse â (that was Fenellaâs room), â Bernhardt â (Paulineâs), â Terry ,â â Lady Bancroft ,â and, near the end of the passage, the despised â Bracegirdle. â Troy did not remember seeing any of these names on her way up to her tower. âBlast!â she thought, âIâve gone wrong.â But she went on uncertainly. The corridor led at right-angles into another, at the far end of which she saw the foot of a flight of stairs like those of her own tower. Poor Troy was certain that she had looked down just such a vista on her way up. âBut I suppose,â she thought, âit must have been its opposite number. From outside, the damn place looked as if it was built round a sort of quadrangle, with a tower at the middle and ends of each wing. In that case, if I keep on turning left, oughtnât I to come back to the picture gallery?â
As she hesitated, a door near the foot of the stairs opened slightly, and a magnificent cat walked out into the passage.
He was white, with a tabby saddle on his back, long haired and amber eyed. He paused and stared at Troy. Then, wafting his tail slightly, he paced slowly towards her. She stooped and waited for him. After some deliberation he approached, examined her hand, bestowed upon it a brief cold thrust of his nose, and continued on his way, walking in the centre of the crimson carpet and still elegantly wafting his tail.
âAnd one other thing,â said a shrill voice beyond the open door, âif you think Iâm going to hang round here like a bloody extra with the family handing me out the bird in fourteen different positions youâve got another think coming.â
A deep voice rumbled unintelligibly.
âI know all about that, and it makes no difference. Nobodyâs going to tell me I lack refinement and get away with it. They treat me as if I had one of those things in the strip ads. I kept my temper down there because I wasnât going to let them see I minded. What do they think they are? My God, do they think itâs any catch living in a mausoleum with a couple of old tats and a kid that ought to be labelled âCrazy
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