I went along the cold, damp corridor to the kitchen. The girl was there, sitting by the fire, her chin resting on her hands. Her bare arms were red with the glow of the fire. She looked up startled, as I entered. The old woman was making porridge. The girl stared at me for a second, her lips parted. Then she got to her feet and hurried out into the scullery as though intent on some household task. I called out to her. She stopped, looking at me nervously as though held there by something about me that fascinated her.
'Will you show me to my room, please?' I said.
'No.' Her voice sounded abrupt and harsh. Then, as though to cover her abruptness, she added, 'I–I must see about the milk. It may turn sour in this storm.' She turned to the old woman, who had stopped stirring the porridge. 'Mrs Brynd, show Mr O'Donnel to the — attic-room.' That slight hesitation — I don't know why, but it worried me.
The old woman's face wrinkled up in a leathery smile. 'Do a yourself,' she said. Then she glanced up at me and I saw a flicker of some expression in her eyes. I can't describe it. All I know is that it was hostile.
The girl hesitated. I couldn't see it, but I knew she was trembling — like a horse that is afraid to take a jump. 'All right,' she said, heavily. 'I'll show you.' She picked up the lamp and led the way out into the corridor, leaving the old woman stirring her porridge.
She mounted the stairs slowly, almost reluctantly. The lamplight threw her shadow grotesquely on the walls of the old staircase. The wind beat against the window at the top of the stairs. We went down a narrow landing with peeling walls and then up a narrow, uncarpeted staircase. There was a door at the top with a queer little hatch cut in it. She hesitated, half turned and looked down at me as though to say something. She raised the lamp slightly. It seemed to me that she raised it in order to see me better. Then she turned quickly and opened the door.
The room was bare and close under the roof. The rain beat on the stone tiles above our heads and the wind howled in the chimney. The dormer window was uncurtained. It was fitted with stout iron bars. She lit a candle on the wash-stand. 'I'll leave you now,' she said. But halfway to the door, she stopped. Again I was aware that she was trembling. She seemed to be trying to say something. Her eyes looked frightened and unhappy in the hot light of the lamp. Suddenly it burst from her, startling and abrupt. 'Your name's Pryce — Jim Pryce. Isn't it?'
The way she said it: I can't describe how it jarred on me. It wasn't only that her voice was brittle and harsh. It had fear and hatred and — oh, it was just horrible.
'Your father's name is Robert Pryce?'
I nodded.