“No, there isn’t anyone else.” This was the wrong thing to say and he tried to withdraw the words from the air but they were lost to him now.
“No one else? No one...?”
“Well....”
“How strange.” She looked at a painting of Mrs Stevanson and at that moment she looked as if this painting were the most important thing to her. Finally she said, “I think I’d like to drink some whiskey. Shall we go to the bar?”
“Certainly, Carla.” He was glad that he had said her name naturally.
Carla felt uncertain. The cold glass that a footman had given her was chilling her hand. She wondered if she should put it down on the dining-room table. They were standing near it and Robert Holton was looking hungrily at the food; she could see that in a moment he would have enough courage to eat.
“What a dreadful room,” said Carla.
“What?” He looked at her as though she had not been there. “Oh, yes, it’s sort of forbidding.” He glanced at the dark wood-paneled walls and the ornate chandelier.
“I don’t know why these people must have everything so heavy inside,” said Carla. “The buildings in New York are so tall and light.”