“Certainly I'll wait,” she said.
“You can come along with me,” said Euphrasia, “if you've a notion to.”
Victoria was of two minds whether to accept this invitation. She had an intense desire to get outside, but this was counter-balanced by a sudden curiosity to see more of this strange woman who loved but one person in the world. Tom Gaylord had told Victoria that. She followed Euphrasia to the back of the hall.
“There's the parlour,” said Euphrasia; “it's never be'n used since Mrs. Vane died,—but there it is.”
“Oh,” said Victoria, with a glance into the shadowy depths of the room, “please don't open it for me. Can't we go,” she added, with an inspiration, “can't we go into—the kitchen?” She knew it was Euphrasia's place.
“Well,” said Euphrasia, “I shouldn't have thought you'd care much about kitchens.” And she led the way onward; through the little passage, to the room where she had spent most of her days. It was flooded with level, yellow rays of light that seemed to be searching the corners in vain for dust. Victoria paused in the doorway.
“I'm afraid you do me an injustice,” she said. “I like some kitchens.”
“You don't look as if you knew much about 'em,” was Euphrasia's answer. With Victoria once again in the light, Euphrasia scrutinized her with appalling frankness, taking in every detail of her costume and at length raising her eyes to the girl's face. Victoria coloured. On her visits about the country-side she had met women of Euphrasia's type before, and had long ago ceased to be dismayed by their manner. But her instinct detected in Euphrasia a hostility for which she could not account.
In that simple but exquisite gown which so subtly suited her, the creation of which had aroused the artist in a celebrated Parisian dressmaker, Victoria was, indeed, a strange visitant in that kitchen. She took a seat by the window, and an involuntary exclamation of pleasure escaped her as her eyes fell upon the little, old-fashioned flower garden beneath it. The act and the exclamation for the moment disarmed Euphrasia.
“They were Sarah Austen's—Mrs. Vane's,” she explained, “just as she planted them the year she died. I've always kept 'em just so.”