In the central hall she took leave of Rosalie, and disappeared inside the gloomy eastern wing. And Rosalie made no further attempt to come with her, for her horror of the previous night was still fresh in her mind.
“I don’t know how Mariana can do it,” she thought, standing still in the great hall. “It’s killing her. She looked like death this morning. And to go there right away, to be buried in that damp sepulchre! It’s terrible, terrible! I hate Mr. Barringcourt! He’s bad—right-down bad! The worst man I know!”
But then she knew so very few.
She was awakened from this reverie to find Everard, the doorkeeper, coming toward her.
Her first impulse was to turn away and walk toward the staircase, which she did.
“Miss Paleaf!”
His tone attracted her immediate attention. There was a certain strong gravity in it that appealed to what gravity and steadiness there was in her.
“Yes,” she answered, turning round to view this wringer of necks in prospective.
“You have endeavoured to do an incredible amount of harm since coming here. Don’t you think it would be advisable to practise a little self-control?”
“Yes. I think if it were practicable it would be advisable to shut myself up in a tin box, or oak, perhaps, and turn round once a week for recreation.”