“Excuse me, madam, but I won’t put the table by you, for as soon as the fire’s burned up, madam, I’m afraid you’ll ’ave to move. You see, that steel, madam, gets practically red-’ot.”
“I thought I smelt something funny,” said Blanche, rising. “Of course——”
“That’s right, madam. It’s the metal ’eatin’. An’ if I may advise you, madam, don’t you forget an’ lay your ’and on it. I did it once without thinkin’, stoopin’ to put on some coal.” He raised his eyes to heaven. “You don’ do it twice. . . . An’ rust.”
“It must be terrible to keep.”
“Madam,” said the butler, “it’s crool. You can’t touch it with oil, or the moment you light the fire the ’ole ’ouse reeks like a dozen engine-rooms. It ’as to be burnished with chains to do any good. We jus’ manage to keep the front, but the top’s a mask of rust an’ so are the sides.”
As if the remembrance of this condition was more grievous than he could bear, the fellow turned away and fell to arranging the tea.
Blanche took another seat and, furtively regarding the apartment, began to wonder what effect, if suffered daily, such a scheme of decoration would have upon her mind. She also wondered if her host had ever heard of 68, Old Bond Street. Black and pink and chocolate were pretty thick, but there was something about the ceiling, something which was not only repugnant, but——
Mrs. Cheviot stiffened with a shock.
Her heart gave one bound and then stopped.
Her gaze riveted upon the ceiling, her fingers clamped upon the arm of her chair, she sat rigid and breathless as statuary itself, while her brain plunged and flounced and refused to obey her will.