“Madge, go away. This is no moment for your hat.”
The poor woman went red. “Auntie gets more eccentric lately,” she said nervously.
“Miss Avery!” called Margaret. “I have come about the furniture. Could you kindly let me in?”
“Yes, Mrs. Wilcox,” said the voice, “of course.” But after that came silence. They called again without response. They walked round the house disconsolately.
“I hope Miss Avery is not ill,” hazarded Margaret.
“Well, if you’ll excuse me,” said Madge, “perhaps I ought to be leaving you now. The servants need seeing to at the farm. Auntie is so odd at times.” Gathering up her elegancies, she retired defeated, and, as if her departure had loosed a spring, the front door opened at once.
Miss Avery said, “Well, come right in, Mrs. Wilcox!” quite pleasantly and calmly.
“Thank you so much,” began Margaret, but broke off at the sight of an umbrella-stand. It was her own.
“Come right into the hall first,” said Miss Avery. She drew the curtain, and Margaret uttered a cry of despair. For an appalling thing had happened. The hall was fitted up with the contents of the library from Wickham Place. The carpet had been laid, the big work-table drawn up near the window; the bookcases filled the wall opposite the fireplace, and her father’s sword—this is what bewildered her particularly—had been drawn from its scabbard and hung naked amongst the sober volumes. Miss Avery must have worked for days.
“I’m afraid this isn’t what we meant,” she began. “Mr. Wilcox and I never intended the cases to be touched. For instance, these books are my brother’s. We are storing them for him and for my sister, who is abroad. When you kindly undertook to look after things, we never expected you to do so much.”