room table untidily strewn with food, and unflinchingly lit up by incandescent gas. Ralph walked straight to the far end of the table.
“Mother, this is Miss Hilbery,” he said.
A large elderly lady, bent over an unsatisfactory spirit-lamp, looked up with a little frown, and observed:
“I beg your pardon. I thought you were one of my own girls. Dorothy,” she continued on the same breath, to catch the servant before she left the room, “we shall want some more methylated spirits—unless the lamp itself is out of order. If one of you could invent a good spirit-lamp———” she sighed, looking generally down the table, and then began seeking among the china before her for two clean cups for the new-comers.
The unsparing light revealed more ugliness than Katharine had seen in one room for a very long time. It was the ugliness of enormous folds of brown material, looped and festooned, of plush curtains, from which depended balls and fringes, partially concealing bookshelves swollen with black school-texts. Her eye was arrested by crossed scabbards of fretted wood upon the dull green wall, and wherever there was a high flat eminence, some fern waved from a pot of crinkled china, or a bronze horse reared so high that the stump of a tree had to sustain his forequarters. The waters of family life seemed to rise and close over her head, and she munched in silence.
At length Mrs. Denham looked up from her teacups and remarked:
“You see, Miss Hilbery, my children all come in at different hours and want different things. (The tray should go up if you’ve done, Johnnie.) My boy Charles is in bed with a cold. What else can you expect?—standing in the wet playing football. We did try drawing-room tea, but it didn’t do.”
A boy of sixteen, who appeared to be Johnnie, grumbled derisively both at the notion of drawing-room tea and at
