Very slowly, looking to right and left of her, Una followed Mrs. Davenant up the broad staircase.
The place seemed to have a strange fascination for her; she could almost have persuaded herself that she had been in it before, and it seemed familiar, though so much changed from all likeness to Jack’s description of it.
They found the rooms upstairs beautifully decorated, and furnished in the most approved and luxurious style. Lady Bell’s house in Park Lane even was eclipsed.
“Stephen has made it a palace,” said Mrs. Davenant. “How I used to hate it in the old time! it was so dark and grim and gloomy, always felt dull and damp. Stephen tells me that he has had it thoroughly drained after the new fashion, and that it is quite dry. Such a palace as this wants a mistress; I wish he would marry.”
“Why do you not tell him so?” said Una, with a smile.
Mrs. Davenant shook her head nervously.
“That would do no good, my dear,” she said. “I sometimes think he will never marry.”
And she glanced at Una with some embarrassment. A dim suspicion had of late crossed her mind that if Una had been free, Stephen might have stood in Jack’s place. She could not help noticing Stephen’s close attendance on Una—a mother’s eyes are sharp to note such things.
If the old squire could have seen the dining-room and the elaborate menu that evening, he would have stared and sworn. Stephen had engaged a French cook; the appointments were as perfect as they could be; the servants admirably trained, and as to the wines the Hurst cellar stood second to none in the country.
It almost seemed as if he were sparing no pains to impress on Una all that the wife of Stephen Davenant would possess. And Una, more than half the dinner-time, was thinking of Jack, and fondly picturing the little house they had so often talked of setting up when the commissionership came home. Just at the same time, Jack was leaning over Lady Bell’s chair in the theater.