The footman had just run out to the pillar box, and another footman was fast asleep in a chair that looked like a baby’s cradle turned upside down.
Fluff ran up the steps and looked in.
There was a beautiful scent of flowers as she crept timidly into the hall, such sleepy warm flowers Fluff thought, only they made her head drowsy; and there was a great staircase with carved balustrades and dark slippery stairs, and the doors were all shut, and there was not a sound in the whole house, except the singing of some birds. Fluff began to feel giddy.
But it was babyish to feel frightened in her own grandpapa’s house, so she took courage, and passing the sleepy footman on tiptoe, crept softly up the stairs, holding very tightly to the balustrades, for she felt as though she were slipping every step, and presently she came to a sunny landing-place with a conservatory, where some canaries were singing. Here she saw a half-open door, and pushed it open, and then she thought she was in fairy-land.
It was such a large beautiful room, with marble ladies standing in the corners, with wonderful green plants growing in gilded baskets, and satin couches, and lace draperies, and lovely china; and in an arm-chair a gentleman asleep, for he had his eyes shut.
Fluff stole in and peeped at him; no, he was not asleep, for his eyes opened, and yet he did not seem to see her, perhaps he was thinking. His face looked very nice and kind, and with the unerring instinct of childhood she laid her hand on his knee.
“If you please, sir, will you tell me where I can find grandpapa?”
The gentleman raised his eyes—as Fluff told her mother afterward, “he looked at me without seeing me;” and then his hand closed quietly over the child’s. Nothing ever seemed to startle Raby Ferrers in that strange dreamy life of his.
“Who are you, my child, and who is your grandpapa?”
“My grandpapa’s name is Mr. Huntingdon, and he lives in this house—Belgrave House it is called, and I am Florence Trafford, but they call me Fluff at home.”