“Oh, her bark is worse than her bite! She’s one of the faithful servants you read about in books and rarely meet in real life. She’s under the impression that if Mr. Parslewe happens not to be at home it’s her duty to be on guard. I believe she thinks of me as a mere child. But I’m mistress, of course!”
“I hope Mr. Parslewe will not think me an intruder?” I suggested. “I suppose I could have struggled through.”
“And I suppose you couldn’t,” she retorted imperatively. “As for Mr. Parslewe, he’ll be delighted to see you. If you can talk to him about anything old—old books, or pictures, old pots, pans, and plates, he’ll be more than delighted.”
I glanced round the room. It was one of those rooms which are difficult to light—there were dark and shadowy places and recesses. But I could see cabinets and presses, shelves and cases, evidently full of the sort of things of which Miss Durham had just spoken; there was also, on my left hand, a massive sideboard, covered with what looked to me like old silver.
“Is Mr. Parslewe a collector, then?” I asked. “Or is he an antiquary?”
“A bit of both, I think,” she answered, as she handed me a tea-cup. “Anyway, he’s always bringing home some curiosity or other that he’s picked up. And he spends most of his time reading his old books—there’s a room higher in the tower full of books—big things that one can scarcely lift.”
“And how do you spend your time?” I inquired. “Not that way?”
She shook her head, laughing.
“That way?” she said. “No!—not yet, anyway; I’ll leave that sort of thing till I’m old and frumpy. No, I spend my time out of doors mostly. A bit of fishing, a bit of running after the beagles, and a good bit of shooting. We have the shooting round about; it’s rough shooting, but good.”
“You’re a regular Diana,” I remarked. “And Mr. Parslewe, does he go in for sport?”