The chief characteristic of the interior of the Manor House is the long, low hall into which the front door opens directly; cozy, comfortable, half drawing room, half billiard room, the Wests used it constantly, Mrs. West working there in the morning and receiving visitors there in the afternoon; in the evenings the house-party assembling there before dinner and after.
“Here we are!” exclaimed West to a tall, graceful woman, who sat reading by the roaring fire. “Here’s Mortimer, and here’s me, so now you have some one to entertain or be entertained by, instead of reading all the time while Agatha insists on spooning with me.”
Mortimer considered himself quick at seeing whether a new acquaintance would prove to his liking, and immediately decided that there was not much chance of there being any real goodwill between Alice Lane and himself. She was not of a type that appealed to him; too sedate, too cool; stately, well-proportioned, almost robust, with a breezy, blunt, direct manner of speech, gesture and look.
“Why are you so late?” Mrs. West asked. “We waited lunch ever so long for you, and now it is almost tea time.”
“It’s partly my fault because I was so busy; partly the fog’s.”
“Chiefly his fault,” said Mortimer; “he kept me waiting in his room for two solid hours. Gave me The Times and a lot of cigars to keep me quiet.”
“You must be famished. Poor things! I’ll ring for tea at once. How can you be so naughty, Phil?”
“If you pull my hair like that I shall kiss you, and you know how that disgusts Alice. I should like to see her in love with some emotional young man like me——”
“Young!” exclaimed Mrs. West, with a merry laugh. “Young! Dark, thin and forty, you mean!”
“Like myself,” he continued, ignoring the interruption. “I wonder whether he would thaw her or she freeze him?”