The only occupant was a rather vulgar-looking
elderly woman (in large feathers and flowing furbelows) whom I took to
be the mother of Alma.
Three powdered footmen came to the door of the Castle as our car drove
up. Their master was out riding. They did not know when he would be
back.
"I'll wait for him," I said, and pushed into the hall, old Tommy
following me.
I think the footmen had a mind to intercept us, but I suppose there was
something in my face which told them it would be better not to try, so I
walked into the first room with the door open.
It turned out to be the dining-room, with portraits of the owner's
ancestors all round the walls--a solid square of evil-looking rascals,
every mother's son of them.
Tommy, still resting his knotty hands on his big blackthorn, was sitting
on the first chair by the door, and I on the end of the table, neither
saying a word to the other, when there came the sound of horses' hoofs
on the path outside. A little later there were voices in the hall, both
low and loud ones--the footmen evidently announcing my arrival and their
master abusing them for letting me into the house.
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