“Do you know,” said she, “I thought at the last minute you’d change your mind and stay away.”
“Oh, no,” he replied. “I always go when Barringcourt throws his house open. There are so many things that interest me there.”
“Yes. It’s quite after the nature of a museum, is it not?”
“Yes. Unlabelled. So that it has an additional charm.”
They took their turn in the long line of carriages, and after a considerable time were enabled to alight.
There was an awning from the parapet to the door, and the steps were also covered a deep red.
Rosalie looked for Everard. He was not there. Two powdered footmen instead. They were not inmates of the Marble House. Neither were any of those who personally waited upon the guests that night. There was not a waiting-maid anywhere about to compare with Mariana, and Rosalie could not have imagined her proud and delicate face amongst that throng. But how different did the wide hall look that night! Brilliantly lit, and with huge fires burning at either end. Fires fit for Festival and freezing weather. And no undue crowding of guests to do away with comfort and beauty and enjoyment. The wide doors to the southern wing, leading to the picture-gallery and conservatory, were thrown open. So also were those to the west, containing the reception rooms—no empty, echoing fireless places now, but full of life and laughter and vivacity.
A reception was held first; dancing did not begin till eleven, when a well-known princess was to lead with a gavotte. She was very proud of her instep.
At twelve supper was to be served in the large subterranean hall, a place Rosalie had never been in, nor, indeed, anyone else. And after that dancing began again, and continued till four. Then carriages and home.
On entering, Rosalie was presented with a programme that explained all this. It was book-shaped, with a mother-of-pearl back, and in the centre a perfect little garden clog with a broken string in gold, and underneath “Christmas 0039”—that being the year as reckoned in Lucifram.