but she found some influence in the atmosphere of the big house that
was vaguely repellent, almost sinister.

Her bedroom was expensively furnished and beautifully kept; some of the
pieces were, she supposed, genuine antiques, perhaps immensely
valuable. But how could she ever feel at home there? She was hampered
by the necessity for moving circumspectly among this aged delicate
stuff; so wonderfully preserved and yet surely fragile and decrepit at
the heart. That spindling escritoire, for instance, and that mincing
Louis Quinze settee, ought to be taking their well-earned leisure in
some museum. It would be indecent to write at the one or sit on the
other. They were relics of the past, foolishly pretending an ability
for service when their life had been sapped by dry-rot and their
original functions outlived.

"Well, if ever I have a house of my own," Rachel thought regarding
these ancient splendours, "I'll furnish it with something I shan't be
afraid of."

With a gesture of dismissal she turned and looked out of the window.
From the square came the sounds of a motor drawing up at a neighbouring
house; she heard the throbbing of the engine, the slam of the door, and
then the strong, sonorous tones of a man's voice. That was her proper
_milieu_, she reflected, among the strong vital things. Even after
twenty minutes in that bedroom she had begun to feel enervated, as if
she herself were also beginning to suffer from dry-rot....

She was anxious and uneasy as she went slowly downstairs to the
drawing-room. Her anticipations of this meeting with her intimidating,
wealthy aunt had changed within the last half-hour. Her first idea of