He lunched alone and then to escape the persistence of his thoughts decided to explore the west wing of the house which he had hardly entered.
At the end of a long corridor a square of yellow sunlight fell across the purple carpet from an open door and he stopped to look in.
It was a pretty room with three windows opening on to a terrace and a door communicating with a room beyond. The walls were panelled with pale blue silk and the chairs and luxurious couches covered with the same. There were several pictures of great value, on a French writing table lay an open blotter, but the blotting paper was crumbling and dry and the ink in the carved brass inkstand was dry also.
In the middle of the room surrounded by a pile of Holland covers and hangings stood Mrs. Eliot, the housekeeper. Christopher had seen her once or twice and she was the only servant, except the butler, with whom he had heard Peter Masters exchange a word. “Lor’, sir, how you made me jump!” she cried at sight of him in the doorway. “It isn’t often one hears a footfall down here, they girls keep away or I’d be about ’em as they know very well.”
“May I come in?” asked Christopher. “What a pretty room.” 242
The woman glanced round hesitatingly. “Well, now, you’re here. Yes. It’s pretty enough, sir.”
“Are you getting ready for visitors?”
He had no intention of being curious, he was only thankful to find some distraction from his own thoughts, and there seemed no reason why he should not chat to the kindly portly lady in charge.
“No visitors here, sir. We don’t have much company. Just a gentleman now and then, as may be yourself.”
She pulled a light pair of steps to the window and mounted them cautiously one step at a time, dragging a long Holland curtain in her hand.