The drawing-room was small, too, and so dark that the maid turned on the rose-shaded electric lights as she ushered Flora into the empty room.
“Mrs. Carey isn’t down yet. I’ll tell her you’re here, m’m.”
“Mrs. Carey is expecting me. Please say that it is Miss Morchard.”
The maid went away.
“Unpunctual,” reflected Flora. “She said half-past ten.”
She gazed round the room, which confirmed the impression of Mrs. Carey’s personality that Flora had already received from her pale mauve notepaper, her methods of expressing herself in writing, and that which she knew of her relations with David Morchard.
Nearly everything in the room was rose-colour, except the walls, which were grey, and laden with sketches, brackets, and a shelf on which stood innumerable framed and unframed photographs, nearly all of them of men.
A minute writing-table, set corner ways, overflowed with papers, and more photographs, including one that Flora recognized instantly, although it had never been sent to St. Gwenllian.
The chair in front of the table supported a number of illustrated papers.
“Untidy,” was Flora’s next verdict.