The hall seemed full of footmen, one of whom took Michael’s hat and another of whom led the way up a wide soft staircase that smelt like the inside of the South Kensington Museum. All the way up, the walls were hung with enormous pictures of men in white wigs. Presently they stood in the largest room Michael had ever entered, a still white room full of golden furniture. Michael had barely recovered his breath from astonishment at the size of the room, when he saw another room round the corner, in which a man was sitting by a great fire. When the footman had left the room very quietly, this man got up and held Mrs. Fane’s hand for nearly a minute. Then he looked at Michael, curiously, Michael thought, so curiously as to make him blush.
“And this is the boy?” the gentleman asked.
Michael thought his mother spoke very funnily, as if she were just going to cry, when she answered:
“Yes, this is Michael.”
“My God, Valérie,” said the man, “it makes it harder than ever.”
Michael took the opportunity to look at this odd man and tried to think where he had seen him before. He was sure he had seen him somewhere. But every time just as he had almost remembered, a mist came over the picture he was trying to form, so that he could not remember.
“Well, Michael,” said the gentleman, “you don’t know who I am.”
“Ah, don’t, Charles,” said Mrs. Fane.
“Well, he’s not so wise as all that,” laughed the gentleman.
Michael thought it was a funny laugh, more sad than cheerful.