"It is a crooked house," said Monsieur Dupont. "It stands on a crooked road, and there are crooked paths all round it. And everything is crooked inside it."
"These decorations are crooked enough, at any rate," Tranter laughed.
"These decorations," said Monsieur Dupont, "are not only crooked—they are bad. Very bad."
He lowered his voice. There was a gleam of excitement in his eyes.
"Don't you see," he whispered, "that decorations can be good or bad, just as men and women can be good or bad? These decorations are bad. They are a mockery of all decorations—a travesty the most heartless of the motives for which good and pure people decorate. There is nothing honest or straightforward about them. They are a mean confusion of all the symbols of joy. They are put up for some cruel and detestable purpose——"
The door flew open with a snap, and a young man of dishevelled appearance burst into the room. His eyes were wild, and his face was working with the intensity of his passion.
"Christine," he panted. "Christine...."
He stopped, and gazed round in a dazed fashion, clenching and unclenching his hands.
Mrs. Astley-Rolfe sprang forward with a suppressed cry, and confronted him tensely.
"Well?" she cried sharply—"what about Christine?"