"Oh, most of that will wear off—she has just been for her holiday, staying with some old school friends, and sailing about the coast, and living in the open air. I told her she'd ruined her complexion, but I don't think she worries her head about that kind of thing. She's a born gipsy, just like her father."
The booming sound of a gong from the hall interrupted our conversation. Glancing at the clock, Lady Bulstrode got up from her chair.
"Come along, Guy," she said; "that's the dressing-bell. I will take you up to your room, and then you can tell me if there's anything you want."
Closely followed by Rufus, who was obviously determined not to lose sight of me in this strange establishment, I accompanied my hostess along one side of the gallery, and up a small flight of stairs which led to a couple of doors.
"Here we are!" she said, opening the one on the left hand. "It's Alan's old room. I hope you'll be comfortable, Guy."
I glanced round the big, splendidly furnished apartment, and saw that my things were all unpacked and laid out ready for use. My eyes took in the thick Turkey carpet, the deep easy chairs, and the luxurious brass bedstead.
I looked up with a smile.
"I think I can rough it here for a night or so," I said. "I'm used to hardships."
Lady Bulstrode laughed again, and, giving me an affectionate pat on the shoulder, left me to my toilet—and my reflections.
I could have desired no better company than the latter. Indeed, my first impulse on finding myself alone was to indulge in a kind of sacramental joy-dance round the room; but the thought that there might be someone underneath was sufficient to restrain my ardour. So I contented myself with going up to Rufus, who had jumped on to one of the chairs, and warmly shaking him by the paw.