At the appointed hour, Mayne,—whose kit had arrived,—presented himself in the drawing-room at Fairplains; looking very business-like, in his well-cut white flannels, and tennis shoes. Here host and hostess were already awaiting their guests.
The apartment was gloomy and old-fashioned—in spite of Miss Nancy's obvious attempts to work a change, with gay cushions, white curtains, and a wealth of flowers; these items entirely failed to overpower the depressing effect of a double suite of Black Bombay furniture—sofas, armchairs and tables; all heavily carved, and upholstered in shabby purple damask,—the original Fairplains furniture, brought from Bombay at vast expense, fifty years previously.
The walls were hung with a weird grey paper, covered with a pattern that recalled urns, and weeping willows; the ceiling was crossed by great beams, and the yellow keys of an aged piano, seemed to grin defiance at every innovation! Mrs. Travers and her daughter had been in turn defeated by the overhanging beams, and funereal furniture, and so the apartment of the early sixties, remained more or less deserted. Nancy generally received her friends in the verandah, or the cheerful, shabby "Den," common to her parent, and herself.
"Is not this room hideous?" she said, appealing to Mayne. "No one likes it. I think it's because when people die,—they are laid out here."
"Nancy!" protested her father, "you don't know what you are talking about! The fact is," turning to Mayne, "this room was once the glory of the old lady who first lived at Fairplains, and there was a sort of understanding that it was not to be transformed,—so here it is, as you see! We only use it on state occasions."
"Once in a blue moon," added Nancy. "The servants say it's haunted, and I believe the old lady comes here still. If any article happens to be moved, it's put back in its place, the same night—it really is; flowers die in a few hours, and I always feel as if this was a brooding, creepy sort of place—I don't like to be here alone after dark—I feel a sense of something terrifying in that far corner—! Dad, shall I take Captain Mayne down and show him the tennis ground? We are proud of that."
"All right, Nan, I'll do figurehead, and receive the company,—and pass them on to you. They will be here at any moment."
The four tennis courts had been, so to speak, scooped out of the hill, and lay open on one side to a sheer descent, enclosed with stout wire netting. A flight of steps connected the ground with the broad terrace in front of the bungalow.
"It's A1," remarked Mayne, "kunkur courts, I declare!"
"My mother had it made in the days when Daddy was rich," explained the girl, "but for years and years it was forgotten,—and overgrown with grass and brambles."