8


That night when everything was over Billy sat at the writing-table
of his sumptuous bedroom--the bed was gilt wood, the curtains of the
three great windows were tremendous, and there was a cheval glass
that showed the full length of him and seemed to look over his head
for more,--and meditated upon this visit of his. It was more than
he had been prepared for. It was going to be a great strain. The
sleek young manservant in an alpaca jacket, who said "Sir" whenever
you looked at him, and who had seized upon and unpacked Billy's most
private Gladstone bag without even asking if he might do so, and put
away and displayed Billy's things in a way that struck Billy as
faintly ironical, was unexpected. And it was unexpected that the
brown suit, with its pockets stuffed with Billy's personal and
confidential sundries, had vanished. And apparently a bath in a
bathroom far down the corridor was prescribed for him in the
morning; he hadn't thought of a dressing-gown. And after one had
dressed, what did one do? Did one go down and wander about the
house looking for the breakfast-room or wait for a gong? Would Sir
Godfrey read Family Prayers? And afterwards did one go out or hang
about to be entertained? He knew now quite clearly that those
wicked blue eyes would mark his every slip. She did not like him.
She did not like him, he supposed, because he was common stuff. He
didn't play up to her world and her. He was a discord in this rich,
cleverly elaborate household. You could see it in the servants'
attitudes. And he was committed to a week of this.