“Most of it is ugly and frowsy,” she declared, “but it isn’t worth talking about. I have made up my mind to insist upon moving from here into Park Lane, or one of the Squares. It is absolutely a frightful neighbourhood, this. If only you could see the people who have been to call on me! Sir John has the most absurd ideas, too. He won’t have menservants inside the house, and his collection of carriages is only fit for a museum—where most of his friends ought to be, by-the-bye. I can assure you, Anna, it will take me years to get decently established. The man’s as obstinate as a mule.”
Anna looked at her steadily.
“He will find it difficult no doubt to alter his style of living,” she said. “I do not blame him. I hope you will always remember——”
Annabel held out her hands with a little cry of protest.
“No lecturing, Anna!” she exclaimed. “I hope you have not come for that.”
“I came,” Anna answered, looking her sister steadily in the face, “to hear all that you can tell me about a man named Hill.”
Annabel had been lying curled up on the lounge, the personification of graceful animal ease. At Anna’s words she seemed suddenly to stiffen. Her softly intertwined fingers became rigid. The little spot of rouge was vivid enough now by reason of this new pallor, which seemed to draw the colour even from her lips. But she did not speak. She made no attempt to answer her sister’s question. Anna looked at her curiously, and with sinking heart.
“You must answer me, Annabel,” she continued. “You must tell me the truth, please. It is necessary.”
Annabel rose slowly to her feet, walked to the door as though to see that it was shut, and came back with slow lagging footsteps.
“There was a man called Montague Hill,” she said hoarsely, “but he is dead.”