“But it will be amusing. And I think they are certainly expecting you.”
“I am not going there.”
She rang. Instantly the door was opened by the handsome middle-aged butler.
“Then come in for a little while,” she said casually. “Murgatroyd, you might bring us up some tea and lemon, or will you have whisky and soda, Mr. Craven?”
“I would much rather have tea and lemon, please,” he said.
A great fire was burning in the hall. Again Craven felt that he was in a more elegant London than the London of modern days. As he went up the wide, calm staircase, and tasted the big silence of the house, he thought of the packed crowd in the Cafe Royal, of the uproar there, of the smoke wreaths, of the staring heterogeneous faces, of the shouting or sullenly folded lips, of the—perhaps—tipsy man of genius, of Jennings with his green eyes, his black beard, his tall ebony staff, of the “little bloodthirsty thing” with the round Russian face, of Miss Van Tuyn in the midst of it all, sitting by the side of Enid Blunt, smoking cigarettes, and searching the men’s faces for the looks which were food for her craving. And he loved the contrast which was given to him.
“Do go in and sit by the fire, and I’ll come in a moment,” said the husky voice he was learning to love. “I’m just going to take off my hat.”
Craven opened the great mahogany door and went in.
The big room was very dimly lighted by two standard electric lamps, one near the fireplace, the other in a distant corner where a grand piano stood behind a huge china bowl in which a pink azalea was blooming. There was a low armchair near the fire by a sofa. He sat down in it, and picked up a book which lay on a table close beside it. What did she read—this book of wisdom?
“Musiciens d’aujourd’hui,” by Romain Rolland.