appearance of being very well satisfied with her morning’s work.
As soon as the front door had closed upon her Miss Silver drew the table-telephone towards her and dialled Trunks.
CHAPTER 13
The dining-room of the George Hotel at Wraydon is very strictly in the tradition of its many Georgian and Victorian counterparts. It has a row of tall windows curtained in olive green and rather heavily screened by yellowing net. The tables-it does have separate tables-are solidly constructed, and shrouded to within an inch or two of the floor.
The table-cloths have seen better days. Sometimes there is a vase containing a couple of paper flowers and a sprig of evergreen. In summer the flowers may even be real if rather shabby-genteel, but always, and where you cannot possibly help seeing it, there is a massive ash-tray which advertises some well known brand of table-water. From the walls engravings representing the royalties and politicians of a bygone day gaze benignly or severely upon the scene. Queen Victoria as a smiling young woman with pretty little ears just peeping out from demurely banded hair. Albert, the Prince Consort, in the days when he was one of the handsomest young men in Europe. The great Gladstone, hatchet-faced and gloomy. The Marquess of Salisbury in a bushy beard. There is something reposeful about the distance between these fading portraits and the really fiery passions which once raged around the men who posed for them.
Ione sat with her back to a window and laughed at Jim Severn’s apologies for not having been able to find a better place for lunch.
“We ought to have gone out into the country.”
“Well, it’s a very good thing we didn’t, isn’t it? I’m not really bigoted about the country when it’s pouring with rain. Cousin Eleanor lives in a village, you know, so I’ve always had plenty of it, and frankly, when it comes to a wet Sunday I’d just as soon be somewhere else. Now here we can go back into the great Victorian age and be as leisurely as we like. We haven’t any trains to catch, and I’ve got a lot of things I want to talk to you about.”
A middle-aged waitress came over to them and took their order. When she had gone he said,
“I’ve got a lot to talk to you about too.”
“Who is going to start?”
“Would you like to?”
She shook her head, smiling.
“Not particularly. It’s the man’s business to lead off, really.”
He leaned towards her across the table and said,
“How much does your sister really want to live in that house?” Ione looked at him composedly.
“I don’t think she wants to live in it at all. I should hate it myself, and I think it’s all wrong for Allegra. She isn’t strong, and the place frightens her.”
“Then why-”
“Oh, it’s Geoffrey. You can’t have talked to him for five minutes without seeing that he’s in love with the house-besotted about it. He makes a joke of it, but that is only on the surface. He can hardly make himself stop talking about it, and I don’t believe he ever stops thinking of it.”
It was curious how easily she could talk to him. He had come to Bleake to furnish Mr. Sanderson with an opinion as to the structural soundness and general condition of the Ladies’ House considered as a suitable investment for Allegra’s trustees, yet neither he nor she was talking about it from that angle. It was the personal and private aspect of the case which was presenting itself. Without a word of explanation they had between them the two things which Ione would not have believed she could discuss with a stranger-Allegra’s state, and the anxiety to which it was giving rise.
The arrival of the waitress with two plates of pink tomato soup gave both of them pause. Jim Severn thought, “It’s none of my business. Why didn’t I hold my tongue?”, and Ione, “but he isn’t a stranger. I’ve known him always-at least that’s what it feels like.”
The soup was hot, and surprisingly, it wasn’t out of a tin.
As soon as the front door had closed upon her Miss Silver drew the table-telephone towards her and dialled Trunks.
CHAPTER 13
The dining-room of the George Hotel at Wraydon is very strictly in the tradition of its many Georgian and Victorian counterparts. It has a row of tall windows curtained in olive green and rather heavily screened by yellowing net. The tables-it does have separate tables-are solidly constructed, and shrouded to within an inch or two of the floor.
The table-cloths have seen better days. Sometimes there is a vase containing a couple of paper flowers and a sprig of evergreen. In summer the flowers may even be real if rather shabby-genteel, but always, and where you cannot possibly help seeing it, there is a massive ash-tray which advertises some well known brand of table-water. From the walls engravings representing the royalties and politicians of a bygone day gaze benignly or severely upon the scene. Queen Victoria as a smiling young woman with pretty little ears just peeping out from demurely banded hair. Albert, the Prince Consort, in the days when he was one of the handsomest young men in Europe. The great Gladstone, hatchet-faced and gloomy. The Marquess of Salisbury in a bushy beard. There is something reposeful about the distance between these fading portraits and the really fiery passions which once raged around the men who posed for them.
Ione sat with her back to a window and laughed at Jim Severn’s apologies for not having been able to find a better place for lunch.
“We ought to have gone out into the country.”
“Well, it’s a very good thing we didn’t, isn’t it? I’m not really bigoted about the country when it’s pouring with rain. Cousin Eleanor lives in a village, you know, so I’ve always had plenty of it, and frankly, when it comes to a wet Sunday I’d just as soon be somewhere else. Now here we can go back into the great Victorian age and be as leisurely as we like. We haven’t any trains to catch, and I’ve got a lot of things I want to talk to you about.”
A middle-aged waitress came over to them and took their order. When she had gone he said,
“I’ve got a lot to talk to you about too.”
“Who is going to start?”
“Would you like to?”
She shook her head, smiling.
“Not particularly. It’s the man’s business to lead off, really.”
He leaned towards her across the table and said,
“How much does your sister really want to live in that house?” Ione looked at him composedly.
“I don’t think she wants to live in it at all. I should hate it myself, and I think it’s all wrong for Allegra. She isn’t strong, and the place frightens her.”
“Then why-”
“Oh, it’s Geoffrey. You can’t have talked to him for five minutes without seeing that he’s in love with the house-besotted about it. He makes a joke of it, but that is only on the surface. He can hardly make himself stop talking about it, and I don’t believe he ever stops thinking of it.”
It was curious how easily she could talk to him. He had come to Bleake to furnish Mr. Sanderson with an opinion as to the structural soundness and general condition of the Ladies’ House considered as a suitable investment for Allegra’s trustees, yet neither he nor she was talking about it from that angle. It was the personal and private aspect of the case which was presenting itself. Without a word of explanation they had between them the two things which Ione would not have believed she could discuss with a stranger-Allegra’s state, and the anxiety to which it was giving rise.
The arrival of the waitress with two plates of pink tomato soup gave both of them pause. Jim Severn thought, “It’s none of my business. Why didn’t I hold my tongue?”, and Ione, “but he isn’t a stranger. I’ve known him always-at least that’s what it feels like.”
The soup was hot, and surprisingly, it wasn’t out of a tin.
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