‘Just like Alice, in “Through the Looking Glass,” you know,’ said Margaret. ‘She was told she was only part of the King’s dreams—was it the Red King or the White one?—and didn’t she begin to cry? I remember how I used to be awfully sorry for her.’
‘Yes. Supposing that Mr. Femm there was dreaming us!’ And then Penderel was sorry he had spoken. He thought Mrs. Waverton looked startled, as if she had suddenly remembered something that had been forgotten during their prattle. But what could she have remembered? Simply that they were here. Or had she learned something while she was out of the room with the queer Miss Femm? Perhaps she knew what he did not know, namely, why Mr. Femm was so frightened. How strange if she were harbouring, behind that bright face, some fearful piece of knowledge, the image of some terrifying shape!
‘More likely that we’re dreaming them.’ Philip lowered his voice. ‘Not Femm himself perhaps, though he’s queer enough. But the other two. They’re just the kind of people I might dream about, particularly that great dumb fellow—what’s his name?—Morgan. He’s the worst.’
Margaret could not resist it. ‘The other one, Phil, Miss Femm——’ she whispered.
He lowered his head. ‘What about her?’
‘She’s a horror.’
Philip looked at her quickly, then pretended indignation. ‘Well, that’s a fine thing to say about your hostess.’
‘No, I mean it, Phil. She’s a horror. She makes me feel sick. I don’t want to go near her.’
Philip was serious now. ‘Why, what’s she been doing?’
‘Oh nothing, really. It’s not that, it’s just what she is. I’ll tell you later.’ Margaret turned round to find Mr. Femm almost at her elbow. Supper was ready, he told them.