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The hill was becoming steeper and steeper； he was gaining speed in spite
of his brakes。 He loosed his grip of the levers； and in a moment was
rushing headlong down。 Five minutes later he was passing through the
gate of the great courtyard。 The front door stood hospitably open。 He
left his bicycle leaning against the wall and walked in。 He would take
them by surprise。
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CHAPTER II。
He took nobody by surprise； there was nobody to take。 All was quiet；
Denis wandered from room to empty room； looking with pleasure at the
familiar pictures and furniture； at all the little untidy signs of life that lay
scattered here and there。 He was rather glad that they were all out； it was
amusing to wander through the house as though one were exploring a dead；
deserted Pompeii。 What sort of life would the excavator reconstruct from
these remains； how would he people these empty chambers？ There was
the long gallery； with its rows of respectable and （though； of course； one
couldn't publicly admit it） rather boring Italian primitives； its Chinese
sculptures； its unobtrusive； dateless furniture。 There was the panelled
drawing… room； where the huge chintz…covered arm…chairs stood； oases of
comfort among the austere flesh…mortifying antiques。 There was the
morning…room； with its pale lemon walls； its painted Venetian chairs and
rococo tables； its mirrors； its modern pictures。 There was the library； cool；
spacious； and dark； book…lined from floor to ceiling； rich in portentous
folios。 There was the dining…room； solidly； portwinily English； with its
great mahogany table； its eighteenth…century chairs and sideboard； its
eighteenth…century picturesfamily portraits； meticulous animal paintings。
What could one reconstruct from such data？ There was much of Henry
Wimbush in the long gallery and the library； something of Anne； perhaps；
in the morning…room。 That was all。 Among the accumulations of ten
generations the living had left but few traces。
Lying on the table in the morning…room he saw his own book of poems。
What tact！ He picked it up and opened it。 It was what the reviewers
call 〃a slim volume。〃 He read at hazard：
〃。。。But silence and the topless dark Vault in the lights of Luna Park；
And Blackpool from the nightly gloom Hollows a bright tumultuous
tomb。〃
He put it down again； shook his head； and sighed。 〃What genius I
had then！〃 he reflected； echoing the aged Swift。 It was nearly six months
since the book had been published； he was glad to think he would never
write anything of the same sort again。 Who could have been reading it；
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he wondered？ Anne； perhaps； he liked to think so。 Perhaps； too； she
had at last recognised herself in the Hamadryad of the poplar sapling； the
slim Hamadryad whose movements were like the swaying of a young tree
in the wind。 〃The Woman who was a Tree〃 was what he had called the
poem。 He had given her the book when it came out； hoping that the
poem would tell her what he hadn't dared to say。 She had never referred
to it。
He shut his eyes and saw a vision of her in a red velvet cloak； swaying
into the little restaurant where they sometimes dined together in London
three quarters of an hour late； and he at his table； haggard with anxiety；
irritation； hunger。 Oh； she was damnable！
It occurred to him that perhaps his hostess might be in her boudoir。 It
was a possibility； he would go and see。 Mrs。 Wimbush's boudoir was in
the central tower on the garden front。 A little staircase cork…screwed up to
it from the hall。 Denis mounted； tapped at the door。 〃Come in。〃 Ah；
she was there； he had rather hoped she wouldn't be。 He opened the door。
Priscilla Wimbush was lying on the sofa。 A blotting…pad rested on
her knees and she was thoughtfully sucking the end of a silver pencil。
〃Hullo；〃 she said； looking up。 〃I'd forgotten you were coming。〃
〃Well； here I am； I'm afraid；〃 said Denis deprecatingly。 〃I'm awfully
sorry。〃
Mrs。 Wimbush laughed。 Her voice； her laughter； were deep and
masculine。 Everything about her was manly。 She had a large； square；
middle…aged face； with a massive projecting nose and little greenish eyes；
the whole surmounted by a lofty and elaborate coiffure of a curiously
improbable shade of orange。 Looking at her； Denis always thought of
Wilkie Bard as the cantatrice。
〃That's why I'm going to Sing in op'ra； sing in op'ra； Sing in op…pop…
pop…pop…pop…popera。〃
Today she was wearing a purple silk dress with a high collar and a row
of pearls。 The costume； so richly dowagerish； so suggestive of the Royal
Family； made her look more than ever like something on the Halls。
〃What have you been doing all this time？〃 she asked。 〃Well；〃 said
Denis； and he hesitated； almost voluptuously。 He had a tremendously
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amusing account of London and its doings all ripe and ready in his mind。
It would be a pleasure to give it utterance。 〃To begin with；〃 he said。。。
But he was too late。 Mrs。 Wimbush's question had been what the
grammarians call rhetorical； it asked for no answer。 It was a little
conversational flourish； a gambit in the polite game。
〃You find me busy at my horoscopes；〃 she said； without even being
aware that she had interrupted him。
A little pained； Denis decided to reserve his story for more receptive
ears。 He contented himself； by way of revenge； with saying 〃Oh？〃 rather
icily。
〃Did I tell you how I won four hundred on the Grand National this
year？〃 〃Yes；〃 he replied； still frigid and mono…syllabic。 She must have
told him at least six times。
〃Wonderful； isn't it？ Everything is in the Stars。 In the Old Days；
before I had the Stars to help m