There were unaging pitch-pine doors of Gothic design in it; there were inlaid marble mantel-pieces and cut-steel fenders; there were stupendous wall-papers, and octagonal, medallioned Wedgewood what-nots, and black-and-gilt Austrian images holding candelabra, with every other refinement that Art had achieved or wealth had bought between 1851 and 1878. And everything reeked of varnish.
'Now!' she opened a baize door, and pointed down a long corridor flanked with more Gothic doors. 'This was where we used to—to patch 'em up. You've heard of us. Mrs. Godfrey told you in the garden the day I got Harvey given me. I'—she drew in her breath—'I live here by myself, and I have a very large income. Come back, Harvey.'
He had tiptoed down the corridor, as rigid as ever, and was sitting outside one of the shut doors. 'Look here!' she said, and planted herself squarely in front of me. 'I tell you this because you—you've patched up Harvey, too. Now, I want you to remember that my name is Moira. Mother calls me Marjorie because it's more refined; but my real name is Moira, and I am in my thirty-fourth year.'
'Very good,' I said. 'I'll remember all that.'
'Thank you.' Then with a sudden swoop into the humility of an abashed boy—''Sorry if I haven't said the proper things. You see—there's Harvey looking at us again. Oh, I want to say—if ever you want anything in the way of orchids or goldfish or—or anything else that would be useful
