It looked gray, cheerless, and forbidding. Daisy put it down to a trick of the weather. They were ushered into a chilly drawing room by a cadaverous butler who informed then that he would ascertain whether Mrs. Bryce-Cuddestone was “at home.” Daisy looked at Freddie in surprise. Surely his mother was expecting them! The drawing room reminded her of the parlor at The Pines, only on a larger scale. The mahogany furniture was more massive, the stuffed birds more predatory, and the marble statuary, colder. Heavy red cloths swathed the tables, heavy red cloth draped the mantel, and acid-green velvet screened the offending sight of the legs of an upright piano. A floral Wilton carpet was covered with coconut runner paths at strategic points, and three sets of curtains hid the damp garden from view: heavy red velvet ones on top, lace under those, and muslin ones underneath to trap the last bit of daylight. A prickly, angular cactus swore at them from the empty fireplace and multiple photographs of various Bryce-Cuddestones glared at them from all points of the room.
