of the hedges had here and there burst open the wooden fencing beneath; and this same sappy-leafed evergreen which composed the hedges also bushed up gardens, smothering as it flourished. This was no arboretum: sycamores stunted and now leafless and birch strangled by ivy put up a losing fight. From amidst this rose semi-mansions; each with its balconies, mansardes, gables and windowed turrets turned, like an ever-expectant sunflower, to the absent sun. All were silent, some shuttered, some boarded up. “Many people,” said Mr. Denge, “are away.”
Though sunless, the sky was large with the light of spring. Gulls skimmed inland. The chalk-white lighthouse stood apart on a tumulus of its own.
The Rover wound down a road and bumped to a stop. Mr. Denge got manfully out, heaved open a gate, got back and drove through on to an asphalt sweep. In the cracks of the asphalt persisted wintry weeds. This was Cathay: Eva lifted her eyes to it. Spacious, as promised, it was not yet falling down. Above a porch with deep ornamental eaves were leaded windows between exterior plumbing. “We are now on the north side,” said Mr. Denge. “The more desirable rooms face the other way.” The derelict garden ran south also: the English Channel appeared in gashes, some of them largish, between backviews of dwellings edging the cliff. The sea was sheeny as steel today.
Eva, on the return from a swift reconnaissance, let Mr. Denge let her into Cathay. He immediately plonked his hat down, in a proprietary manner she did not care for, on a refectory table—the first of Cathay’s appointments to meet her eye. This interior, the entrance or lounge hall, was a darkling salmon-pink where it was not beset by oak just too black to be old. Antlers and ironwork (candle brackets) studed the walls. One breathed a musty aroma—at once dear to her. “Trifle stuffy in here?” murmured Mr. Denge. He made free with one of the windows, throwing it open.
Eva could not, now, wait for him to be gone. Walking decidedly away from him, she set out on a tour of the reception rooms. These opened into each other, through flattened arches, and had many bay and some subsidiary windows, of which some were blotted out by the evergreen pressing congested foliage against their panes. The sun lounge, plastered along the southern front of the dining-room, had been so very unfortunate in this matter that it now more resembled a charnel arbour: there was nothing to sit on in it, and no wonder. The double drawing-room was furnished: carpets and parquet were dotted with brocade-clad armchairs and sofas, trefoil-shaped tables and standard lamps with tilted, worn shades. You could see that everything had its history: chair-backs wore grease-darkened circles where heads had rested, and chair-arms, tables and flooring not only were mapped by wandering stains but abounded in small charred troughs burned by cigarettes … In some other life, Eva had been shown a knocked-about doll-house (had it not stood on a verandah, somewhere?) and knelt down to look deeply into its dramatic rooms. She had desired it. She was the more won over, consequently, by what was now round her—and the more elated. This , she possessed.
There was a manoir-style dining-room suite. The new proprietor worked on stuck sideboard drawers till they jerked open, corks rolling about inside. The contents of the china closet were three odd saucers and four chipped cocktail glasses with crowing cocks on them. From the kitchen, Eva retreated —Mr. Denge, last heard of dumping the luggage, had got in there and was trying out matches on gas appliances. Bangs resulted, one being a loud explosion—gun shy, Eva made for the upper floor. Here were more bay windows, folded-up triple mirrors and stripped-down large beds still smelling of something. Mr. Denge ran her down, finally, in a black-tiled bathroom she was admiring. “All in excellent order, so far!” he was glad to report.
“Thank you,” Eva said
Though sunless, the sky was large with the light of spring. Gulls skimmed inland. The chalk-white lighthouse stood apart on a tumulus of its own.
The Rover wound down a road and bumped to a stop. Mr. Denge got manfully out, heaved open a gate, got back and drove through on to an asphalt sweep. In the cracks of the asphalt persisted wintry weeds. This was Cathay: Eva lifted her eyes to it. Spacious, as promised, it was not yet falling down. Above a porch with deep ornamental eaves were leaded windows between exterior plumbing. “We are now on the north side,” said Mr. Denge. “The more desirable rooms face the other way.” The derelict garden ran south also: the English Channel appeared in gashes, some of them largish, between backviews of dwellings edging the cliff. The sea was sheeny as steel today.
Eva, on the return from a swift reconnaissance, let Mr. Denge let her into Cathay. He immediately plonked his hat down, in a proprietary manner she did not care for, on a refectory table—the first of Cathay’s appointments to meet her eye. This interior, the entrance or lounge hall, was a darkling salmon-pink where it was not beset by oak just too black to be old. Antlers and ironwork (candle brackets) studed the walls. One breathed a musty aroma—at once dear to her. “Trifle stuffy in here?” murmured Mr. Denge. He made free with one of the windows, throwing it open.
Eva could not, now, wait for him to be gone. Walking decidedly away from him, she set out on a tour of the reception rooms. These opened into each other, through flattened arches, and had many bay and some subsidiary windows, of which some were blotted out by the evergreen pressing congested foliage against their panes. The sun lounge, plastered along the southern front of the dining-room, had been so very unfortunate in this matter that it now more resembled a charnel arbour: there was nothing to sit on in it, and no wonder. The double drawing-room was furnished: carpets and parquet were dotted with brocade-clad armchairs and sofas, trefoil-shaped tables and standard lamps with tilted, worn shades. You could see that everything had its history: chair-backs wore grease-darkened circles where heads had rested, and chair-arms, tables and flooring not only were mapped by wandering stains but abounded in small charred troughs burned by cigarettes … In some other life, Eva had been shown a knocked-about doll-house (had it not stood on a verandah, somewhere?) and knelt down to look deeply into its dramatic rooms. She had desired it. She was the more won over, consequently, by what was now round her—and the more elated. This , she possessed.
There was a manoir-style dining-room suite. The new proprietor worked on stuck sideboard drawers till they jerked open, corks rolling about inside. The contents of the china closet were three odd saucers and four chipped cocktail glasses with crowing cocks on them. From the kitchen, Eva retreated —Mr. Denge, last heard of dumping the luggage, had got in there and was trying out matches on gas appliances. Bangs resulted, one being a loud explosion—gun shy, Eva made for the upper floor. Here were more bay windows, folded-up triple mirrors and stripped-down large beds still smelling of something. Mr. Denge ran her down, finally, in a black-tiled bathroom she was admiring. “All in excellent order, so far!” he was glad to report.
“Thank you,” Eva said
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