An evening or two later we were sitting in the drawing room after dinner, when a cousin who was staying with us suddenly missed her fan.
"Run and fetch Muriel's fan, Dormy," I said, for Muriel felt sure it had slipped under the dinner table. None of the men had as yet joined us.
"Why, where are you going, child?" as he turned towards the farther door. "It is much quicker by the gallery."
He said nothing, but went out, walking rather slowly, by the gallery door. And in a few minutes he returned, fan in hand, but by the other door.
He was a sensitive child, and though I wondered what he had got into his head against the gallery, I did not say anything before the others. But when, soon after, Dormy said "Good night," and went off to bed, I followed him.
"What do you want, Leila?" he said rather crossly.
"Don't be vexed, child," I said. "I can see there is something the matter. Why do you not like the gallery?"
He hesitated, but I had laid my hand on his shoulder, and he knew I meant to be kind.
"Leila," he said, with a glance round, to be sure that no one was within hearing—we were standing, he and I, near the inner dining-room door, which was open—"you'll laugh at me, but—there's something queer there—sometimes!"
"What? And how do you mean 'sometimes'?" I asked, with a slight thrill at his tone.