“Are there such awful things as electric lights in this wonderful room?” cried the other, disappointed. “I can't believe it of my husband. He couldn't permit anything so bizarre as that.”
“They are emergency lights,” laughed Lydia. “He never uses them, of course. They are for the servants.”
“You are Lydia?”
“Yes, Mrs Brood.”
“I have been prowling everywhere. Your good mother deserted me when my maid arrived with Ranjab a short time ago. Isn't this the dread Bluebeard room? Shall I lose my head if I am discovered by the ogre?”
The girl felt the spell stealing over her. The low voice of the woman in the shadow was like a sensuous caress. She experienced a sudden longing to be closer to the speaker, to listen for the very intake of her breath.
“You have already been discovered by the ogre, Mrs Brood,” said Lydia gaily, “and your head appears to be quite safe.”
“Thank you,” rather curtly, as if repelling familiarity. It was like a dash of cold water to Lydia's spirits. “You may turn on the lights. I should like to see you, Miss Desmond.”
The girl crossed the room, passing close to the stranger in the house. The fragrance of a perfume hitherto unknown to her separated itself from the odour of sandalwood that always filled the place; it was soft, delicate, refreshing. It was like a breath of cool, sweet air filtering into a close, stuffy enclosure. One could not help drawing in a long, full breath, as if the lungs demanded its revivifying qualities.
A soft, red glow began to fill the room as Lydia pulled the cord near the door. There was no clicking sound, no sharp contact of currents; the light came up gradually, steadily, until the whole space was drenched with its refulgence. There were no shadows. Every nook and corner seemed to fill with the warm, pleasant hue of the setting sun, and yet no visible means appeared.