"It's the one Mr. Wentworth died in. Hadn't you best take up your traps and be off?"
"No, I shall stay."
"Then there's no more to be said."
"Run, Liz," said the woman, "and light the fire in the parlour."
The girl left the room, and the woman, taking up a candle, said she would take me to the chamber where I was to sleep. She led me down a long and narrow passage, and then, opening a door, down two steps into the most extraordinary-looking room I had ever seen. The walls were completely circular, covered with a paper of a staring grotesque pattern. A small iron bedstead projected into the middle of the floor, which was uncarpeted except for a slip of matting beside it. A cheap deal wash-hand-stand, a couple of chairs, and a small table with a blurred looking-glass stood against the wall beneath a deep embrasure, in which there was a window. This was evidently a room in one of the circular towers. I had never seen less inviting quarters.
"Your supper will be ready directly, sir," said the woman, and placing the candle on the little table, she left me.
The place felt damp and draughty, and the flame of the candle flickered about, causing the tallow to gutter to one side. There was no fireplace in the room, and above, the walls converged to a point, giving the whole place the appearance of an enormous extinguisher. I made a hurried and necessarily limited toilet, and went into the parlour. I was standing by the fire, which was burning badly, when the door opened, and the girl Liz came in, bearing a tray in her hand. She laid the tray on the table and came up softly to me.
"Fools come to this house," she said, "and you are one."
"Pray let me have my supper, and don't talk," I replied. "I am tired and hungry, and want to go to bed."
Liz stood perfectly still for a moment.