CHAPTER IV. THE GREAT MAN FROWNS.
The next morning Chris was awakened by a stream of bright light coming between the window-curtains and when she looked out of the window, she gave a scream of delight.
“Oh! mother—mother, this can’t be really November, or we can’t be really in foggy England!” she cried in an ecstasy, as she drank in, with greedy eyes, all the loveliness of fresh green grass, and the varied tints of trees in autumn.
Their bed-room was at the front of the house, and looked inland over the flower-garden and the park. The beauty of the place became still more striking to their London eyes, when they went into the Chinese-room, and saw the view southwards over the sea, and westwards along the country road to little Wyngham, a mile away.
But while Chris was chiefly occupied with the outlook from the windows, Mrs. Abercarne’s attention was directed to the interior of the house, and she made some discoveries in the broad daylight which the gracious glamour of candles had concealed from her. Curious lapses of knowledge or taste now betrayed themselves. She perceived a valuable oil-painting hanging on the wall between a chromo and an oleograph. A rare edition of Shakespeare stood in the bookcase, side by side with one which was cheap, worthless and modern. In china the collector’s lack of taste was still more evident; old and new, good and bad, were treated on equal terms.
She made no comment aloud, however, having, after the experience of the previous evening, a discreet fear of being mysteriously overheard.
When they had breakfasted, the head housemaid came up with a message from Mr. Bradfield, to the effect that he hoped they would begin the day by inspecting the house, and particularly his “collection.”
“We shall be delighted,” said Mrs. Abercarne, “and where is the special collection Mr. Bradfield wishes us to see?”
“It isn’t anywhere specially,” answered the woman, a gloomy-eyed and severe person, who had lived “in noblemen’s families,” and felt her own condescension in occupying her present situation most deeply. “The things are all over the place. There are no galleries.”
“A charming arrangement,” murmured Mrs. Abercarne. “So much better than the usual formal disposal of art treasures, as if in a museum.”