Then the spasm passed, and she faced the hideous truth.
The cipher on the ceiling was no illusion.
The hall was fully entitled to be styled ‘A Cheviot Room.’
Appalling reflections came surging into her brain.
Titus. This was his work. And he had been paid money for conceiving—this. There were possibly two other chambers under this very roof which he had—decorated. More. All over England there were rooms with chocolate friezes and bright pink doors, bearing the Cheviot cipher, the hall-mark of style—the badge of infamy. As like as not he had done five or six to-day—at one hundred guineas apiece. . . . And there he was walking about, all cheerful and unsuspecting, while battle, murder and sudden death at the hands of infuriated clients must be crouching to spring upon his shoulders. Any moment the storm must break. Why hadn’t there been protests—riots? Why hadn’t Old Bond Street——
Here her host reappeared to say that a car would be ready in half an hour.
Blanche tried to thank him and to keep her eyes on the floor. . . .
Twenty-five ghastly minutes went halting by.
Mrs. Cheviot swallowed some tea, toyed with a scone, the very sight of which choked her, and by superhuman efforts succeeded in keeping the slippery ball of conversation upon the field of sport. Out of doors, out of mind. . . .
It was natural that hunting should figure, if late, upon her list.