She left Quentillian in the tiny, red-tiled hall while she went into a room opening out of it, that was as obviously the drawing-room as the room on the other side was the dining-room.
Quentillian looked round him, at the walls crowded with foolish brackets and bad water-colours, at the painted deal staircase and balusters, at the window on the landing that looked out on to little back gardens, all of exactly the same size and shape, and had a momentary vivid recollection of the shabby, dignified rooms at St. Gwenllian, and the old cedars close to the tennis court.
Lucilla had been fond of gardening.
From somewhere in the basement came the screeching note of a parrot.
Then Lucilla summoned him.
The drawing-room was exactly what he had expected it to be, and so was the aunt.
She talked a little about Torquay, and explained that she knew some of the residents, but none of the visitors, unless there was “a link,” and she asked Owen if he had read the life of Mary Slessor of Calabar.
He had not.
“You ought to read it. She was such a wonderful person,” said the old lady with enthusiasm, and she talked about foreign missions for some time, though even this failed to enlighten the uninterested Quentillian on the identity of Mary Slessor of Calabar.
Lucilla did not talk very much—but, then, she never had talked very much.