Ina had hardly spoken at all. She said, “Yes,” when she was asked if she liked her room, and, “No,” when she was asked if she was tired. She had become so pale that the delicately applied colour which had been so becoming when she started now showed up like a patch on the white skin. When they went to see the rest of the house she contrived to remain behind.

Penny went on doing showman.

“The rooms are the same on both sides-four bedrooms on this floor, and an attic room above. And there is a linen-cupboard on each side. It really was two houses to start with. That’s the door through to our side-there’s one on each floor. Eliza sleeps in your attic, so the other two bedrooms are spare. Then downstairs there are three sitting-rooms, and the kitchen, and things like that-the same both sides. You’ve got the dining-room, and a little room that hasn’t been used much, and Uncle Martin’s study, which I think is the nicest room in the house. And on our side there’s the breakfast-room, and the drawing-room, and a room the aunts have always had for themselves. No one ever goes into the drawing-room except Felix-because of the piano, you know. It’s a lovely Bechstein grand. He really does play beautifully. And he composes. He ought to be doing that all the time, instead of going round playing people’s accompaniments.”

Marian wasn’t stupid. There was an emphasis on “people”-Penny’s eyes were bright and her cheeks flushed. She remembered that Felix Brand was Helen Adrian’s accompanist, and that Helen Adrian was, from her pictures, a very pretty woman. There was no need to say anything. They were coming into the study, and when they were really there all she could do was to draw a long satisfied breath and say, “Oh!”

It was the most comfortable room she had ever seen. All the strangeness went out of her as she looked at it. It wasn’t until afterwards that she could notice and admire the pair of Chippendale bookcases with their curved horns and diamond lattice-work, or the writing-table with its pigeon-holes and little drawers, and the brass handles which were the colour of very pale gold. At the time she only knew that it was a beautiful room, and that she loved it.

Penny squeezed her arm and pulled her over to the window. The view was the same as from the bedroom above, but you saw more garden and less cover. There was a narrow bed of forget-me-nots under the three windows, set with May-flowering tulips just coming into bloom, the long pointed buds still green but flushed and streaked with rose, and purple, and scarlet, and yellow. The middle window was a door with two shallow steps going down to a flagged path beyond the flowers. You only had to turn a handle and step out. There was a pink cherry in bloom away to the left.

“It’s nice, isn’t it?” said Penny. She was still holding Marian’s arm. Eliza had vanished. They were alone.

Marian said, “Yes,” with a deep sigh of content, and all at once Penny felt that she could say anything. Her hand squeezed harder. The words came tumbling out.

“Marian-you won’t want to take the piano, will you? I don’t know what Felix would do without it, and it wouldn’t be right in here-not a bit. The aunts have been saying you’d want it, and the drawing-room furniture. And of course it’s all yours, but you’d hate it really-nasty gilt spindly stuff, and the sort of shiny brocade you can only sit on in your best evening dress. You wouldn’t really want to spoil this room with it-would you?”

“I should hate it. And of course I won’t take the piano away from Felix.”

The door behind them was open. Eliza came through it with a tea-tray. The cat Mactavish followed, walking delicately, like Agag. Having set down the tray, Eliza straightened herself. Penny became aware that the moment was a fateful one. There were persons so uninstructed as to address a princely Persian as “puss.” There were ill-mannered vulgarians who attempted to lay an uninvited hand upon him. There were those who knew how to treat him. Eliza was undoubtedly waiting to see into which category Miss Marian Brand would fall. She said,

“I thought you would like a cup of tea after the journey.”

And Marian said, “How lovely,” and “Thank you,” and sat down in front of the table which held the tray.

The critical moment impended. Mactavish advanced, his tail fluffed out to its fullest extent, his topaz eyes wary upon the stranger.

Marian said, “Oh, how beautiful!” on what was felt to be a very proper note, and then, “What is his name?”

Eliza noted the pronoun with approbation. She had a biting contempt for people who alluded to all cats as her.

“His name’s Mactavish.”

Marian gazed admiringly.

“Will he come to me?”

“He’ll please himself.”

Mactavish pleased himself. The tone of this person’s voice satisfied a fastidious ear. He was aware of being admired, not fulsomely, but in a well-bred manner. When the voice addressed him by name he advanced and sniffed at a respectfully extended hand. Considering that it had been an agreeable smell, he rubbed his head against it and permitted himself to be delicately stroked behind the ear. Then, before the astonished eyes of Penny and Eliza, he leaped on to the stranger’s lap and settled there.

As the sound of a faint purr became audible, Eliza made up her mind. If anyone had told her that Mactavish would have taken such a fancy, she wouldn’t have believed them. Few indeed were the chosen laps upon which he would condescend to sit-Mr. Brand’s, Felix’s, and Penny’s. If lifted up by Mrs. Alfred Brand or Miss Cassy, his eyes flamed with fury and he removed himself with all possible haste. He had been known to kick, to scratch, and even to bite. He always washed himself all over afterwards. And now just to look at him, with his paws doubled under and purring like a teakettle! If that wasn’t a sign, Eliza didn’t know one. She said,

“My goodness, gracious me!” and went out of the room in a hurry.

Upstairs in her new bedroom Ina was leaning out of the window. It was all lovely, and she was very unhappy. Cyril was behaving very badly indeed. When it happened right under your eyes like that, it was no good going on trying to pretend any longer. He didn’t want to work-he never had wanted to work. He wanted all the things you can’t get without working for them. He wanted Marian to give him half the money. And she wouldn’t. Ina had said whatever Cyril had wanted her to say. And still Marian wouldn’t. Deep down inside her there was something which said that Marian was right. Since the last really dreadful row Ina found herself unable to close her thought to that voice. It told her that all Cyril ever wanted with money was to spend it on having a good time, and that when it was spent he would want more, and more, and more. She was finding it impossible to drape this Cyril any longer in the garments of romance. He was beginning to emerge as a selfish, emotional young man who could see no reason why everything should not give way to him. He had not come down with them to Cove House because, after the last row two days ago, he had flung out of the house and banged the door behind him. She didn’t know where he was, or when she would see him again.

She didn’t want to see him again.

This thought shocked her so much that she felt giddy. She leaned right out, and heard voices from the window next to hers. This window was on the other side of the wall which divided the two houses, but it was only three or four feet away, and it was open. There were two voices-two women’s voices. One said, “It would be a good thing if she was dead.” And the other said, “People don’t die just because you want them to.”

Ina felt a kind of stinging horror. She drew back, and saw Penny smiling at her from the doorway.

“There’s some tea in the study. I expect you’re dying for it. Marian couldn’t come up for you because Mactavish won’t get off her lap.”