After the low room downstairs the bedroom seemed enormous. The ceiling in Gothic irregularities of outline slanted up and up to cobwebs and shadows. It was a great barn of a room. A tall four-post bed, hung with faded tapestries of Love and War, was set off by oak chests-of-drawers and Court cupboards. The floor was uneven, strangely out of keeping with the rose-infested Brussels carpet so vividly new. Most of the windows, latticed and small, were set flush with the floor; but high up in a dormer was a large window with diamonded panes, uncurtained, black and ominous. A couple of tall cheval-glasses added to the mystery of the room with their reduplication of shadowy corners.
"And May's in here," Mrs. Trewhella informed them, leading the way. "The loft begins again after your bedroom, so the ceiling isn't so tall."
Certainly, May's room was ordinary enough, even dainty, with the dimity curtains and wall-paper of bows and forget-me-nots. Round the toilet-table crackled a pink chintz valance, draped in stiffest muslin.
Mrs. Trewhella looked closely at Jenny for a moment before she left them.
"You're thin, my dear," she commented. "Ah, well, so was I; and I can mind the time when they wondered what a man could see in such a maid. The men was all for plumpness then. Wish you good night."
The old woman thumped off down the corridor, her candle a-bob with every limping step.
"What a dreadful place," said Jenny.
"Don't let's stay," said May eagerly. "Don't let's stay. Let's go back—now—now."
"Don't be silly. How can we? But we never oughtn't to have come. Oh, May, I only wish I could sleep in here with you."
"Well, why don't you?" suggested May, who was shocked to see how the usually so indomitable sister was shaking with apprehension. "There's plenty of room and I'd chance what he says."