Philip was conscious of standing in a long dark hall with stairs at the end of it and a large oak chest with a glass case that contained a stuffed bird taking up much of the space; that, he always afterwards remembered, was his first impression of the house, that it was absurd to put so large a chest just there where everyone would knock against it. A misty babel of talk surrounded him: he was conscious of a tall old woman wearing a high, stiffly-starched white cap: she had a fine colour, very dark red cheeks, hair a deep black and flashing eyes. She must be between sixty and seventy, but her body was straight and vigorous. This was, he supposed, Rebekah. He saw, in the background, old Mr. Trenchard being helped up the stairs by Rocket; he heard Aunt Betty in a happy twitter, “Ah, now, this is nice ... this is nice ... how nice this is.” He heard Mrs. Trenchard’s slow, sleepy voice: “No—the train was punctual, Rebekah, quite punctual. We had luncheon on the train ... yes, we were quite punctual.”
Someone said: “I’ll show Philip his room,” and George Trenchard, laughing, cried to him: “Come on, Philip, this way—this way.” Trenchard, like a boy, bounded up the stairs in front of him. They were old, black, winding and creaking stairs that sighed as you mounted them. Trenchard cried: “To the right now—mind your head!” They turned through a little passage, so low that Philip must bend double and so dark that he could see nothing before him. He put out his hand, touched Trenchard’s broad back, and was surprised at his sense of relief. Now they walked along another passage, very narrow, white walls with coloured sporting prints hanging on them. “Ah! here’s the Blue Room. Here you are. Hope you’ll like it—got a decent view. Brought you hot water? Ah, yes, there it is. When you’ve washed come down just as you are. Don’t bother to change.... It’s only supper to-night, you know.... Right you are.”
His room was charming, with cherry-coloured wall-paper on walls that seemed a thousand years old. He flung his windows open, and there was the moon, thin, sharp, quivering with light in the sky, and he could hear the stream that had accompanied him ever since his entry into Glebeshire still singing to him. The night air was so sweet, the trees, that sighed and trembled and sighed again, so intimate. There was an intimacy here that he had never felt in any country before.
There was an intimacy and also, for him, at any rate, some strange loneliness.... He closed the window. He found his way down into the hall, and there saw Katherine. “Quick!” she cried. “Quick! I hoped that you’d come down before the others. We’ve got ten minutes.” She was almost dancing with excitement (she his staid, reserved Katherine). She was pulling him by the arm, out through the door, under the porch, into the garden. She ran across the lawn, and he, more slowly, followed her. He caught her and held her close to him.
“You love it, Philip—don’t you? You must. Of course you’ve hardly seen anything to-night. To-morrow we must both get up early, before anyone else, and come down. But look back now. Isn’t the house simply—? Isn’t it? Don’t you feel the happiness and cosiness and friendliness? Oh, you must! You must!”
“When I’ve got you I don’t want anything. Everything is lovely.”
“But you’re happy now to be here, aren’t you?”
“Very happy.”
“And you won’t be disappointed, will you? You must promise me that you won’t be disappointed.”
“I promise you.”