style="font-size:15px;"> ‘Who told you that?’ he mumbled.
‘Captain Trevelyan.’
‘Joe should hold his tongue,’ said Burnaby. ‘He talks too much. What’s the weather like now?’
Respecting his embarrassment, Violet followed him to the window. They drew the curtain aside and looked out over the desolate scene.
‘More snow coming,’ said Burnaby. ‘A pretty heavy fall too, I should say.’
‘Oh! how thrilling,’ said Violet. ‘I do think snow is so romantic. I’ve never seen it before.’
‘It isn’t romantic when the pipes freeze, you foolish child,’ said her mother.
‘Have you lived all your life in South Africa, Miss Willett?’ asked Major Burnaby.
Some of the girl’s animation dropped away from her. She seemed almost constrained in her manner as she answered.
‘Yes—this is the first time I’ve ever been away. It’s all most frightfully thrilling.’
Thrilling to be shut away like this in a remote moorland village? Funny ideas. He couldn’t get the hang of these people.
The door opened and the parlourmaid announced:
‘Mr Rycroft and Mr Garfield.’
There entered a little elderly, dried-up man and a fresh-coloured, boyish young man. The latter spoke first.
‘I brought him along, Mrs Willett. Said I wouldn’t let him be buried in a snowdrift. Ha, ha. I say, this all looks simply marvellous. Yule logs burning.’
‘As he says, my young friend very kindly piloted me here,’ said Mr Rycroft as he shook hands somewhat ceremoniously. ‘How do you do, Miss Violet? Very seasonable weather—rather too seasonable, I fear.’
He moved to the fire talking to Mrs Willett. Ronald Garfield buttonholed Violet.
‘I say, can’t we get up any skating anywhere? Aren’t there some ponds about?’
‘I think path digging will be your only sport.’
‘I’ve been at it all the morning.’
‘Oh! you he-man.’
‘Don’t laugh at me. I’ve got blisters all over my hands.’
‘How’s your aunt?’
‘Oh! she’s always the same—sometimes she says she’s better and sometimes she says she’s worse, but I think it’s all the same really. It’s a ghastly life, you know. Each year, I wonder how I can stick it—but there it is—if one doesn’t rally round the old bird for Xmas—why, she’s quite capable of leaving her money to a Cat’s Home. She’s got five of them, you know. I’m always stroking the brutes and pretending I dote upon them.’
‘I like dogs much better than cats.’
‘So do I. Any day. What I mean is a dog is—well, a dog’s a dog, you know.’
‘Has your aunt always been fond of cats?’
‘I think it’s just a kind of thing old maids grow into. Ugh! I hate the brutes.’
‘Your aunt’s very nice, but rather frightening.’
‘I should think she was frightening. Snaps my head off sometimes. Thinks I’ve got no brains, you know.’
‘Not really?’
‘Oh! look here, don’t say it like that. Lots of fellows look like fools and are laughing underneath.’
‘Mr Duke,’ announced the parlourmaid.
Mr Duke was a recent arrival. He had bought the last of the six bungalows in September. He was a big man, very quiet and devoted to gardening. Mr Rycroft who was an enthusiast on birds and who lived next door to him had taken him up, overruling the section of thought which voiced the opinion that of course Mr Duke was a very nice man, quite unassuming, but was he, after all, quite—well, quite? Mightn’t he, just possibly, be a retired tradesman?
But nobody liked to ask him—and indeed it was thought better not to know. Because if one did know, it might be awkward, and really in such a small community it was best to know everybody.
‘Not walking to Exhampton in this weather?’ he asked of Major Burnaby.
‘No, I fancy Trevelyan will hardly expect me tonight.’
‘It’s awful, isn’t it?’ said Mrs Willett with a shudder. ‘To be buried up here, year after year—it must be ghastly.’
Mr Duke gave her a quick glance. Major Burnaby too stared at her curiously.
But at that moment tea was brought in.
After tea, Mrs Willett suggested bridge.
‘There are six of us. Two can cut in.’
Ronnie’s eyes brightened.
‘You four start,’ he suggested. ‘Miss Willett and I will cut in.’
But Mr Duke said that he did not play bridge.
Ronnie’s face fell.
‘We might play a round game,’ said Mrs Willett.
‘Or table-turning,’ suggested Ronnie. ‘It’s a spooky evening. We spoke about it the other day, you remember. Mr Rycroft and I were talking about it this evening as we came along here.’
‘I am a member of the Psychical Research Society,’ explained Mr Rycroft in his precise way. ‘I was able to put my young friend right on one or two points.’
‘Tommy rot,’ said Major Burnaby very distinctly.
‘Oh! but it’s great fun, don’t you think?’ said Violet Willett. ‘I mean, one doesn’t believe in it or anything. It’s just an amusement. What do you say, Mr Duke?’
‘Anything you like, Miss Willett.’
‘We must turn the lights out, and we must find a suitable table. No—not that one, Mother. I’m sure it’s much too heavy.’
Things were settled at last to everyone’s satisfaction. A small round table with a polished top was brought from an adjoining room. It was set in front of the fire and everyone took his place round it with the lights switched off.
Major Burnaby was between his hostess and Violet. On the other side of the girl
