“I must ask the padre to-morrow,” I said to his wife. “I’d rather like to hear the whole story. I felt when I first came into this room there was history connected with it.”
She looked at me rather strangely for a moment; then she gave a little forced laugh.
“Do you know, Tom,” she said slowly, “at times I almost hate this room. All my friends gnash their teeth with envy over it—but sometimes, when Jack’s been away, and I’ve dined in here by myself—it’s terrified me. I feel as if—I wasn’t alone: as if—there were people all round me—watching me. Of course, it’s absurd, I know. But I can’t help it. And yet I’m not a nervy sort of person.”
“I don’t think it’s at all absurd,” I assured her. “I believe I should feel the same myself. A room of this size, which, of necessity, is dimly lighted in the corners, and which is full of historical associations, must cause an impression on the least imaginative person.”
“We used it once for a dance,” she laughed; “with a ragtime band in the gallery.”
“And a great show it was, too,” broke in her husband. “The trouble was that one of the musicians got gay with a bottle of whisky, and very nearly fell clean through that balustrade effect on to the floor below. I haven’t had that touched—and the wood is rotten.”
“I pray you be seated, gentlemen.” A sudden silence fell on the table, and everybody stared at Bill Sibton.
“Is it a game, Bill?” asked Jack Drage. “I rather thought we were. And what about the ladies?”
With a puzzled frown Bill Sibton looked at him. “Did I speak out loud, then?” he asked slowly.
“And so early in the evening too!” Joan Neilson laughed merrily.