Suddenly Hetty had been seized by an overpowering tiredness. The euphoria of meeting Hugo and the pleasure of the drive to Loburn had left her. She was not only tired but extremely nervous, an actress waiting to go on stage for her first big role. Loburn, the weather-worn grey stone house at the end of a winding drive, was not as large as she had expected it to be, although who knew what warren of rooms there was behind the austere facade. Worn stone steps up to a pedimented doorway, a butler swinging the door open, and then the sun-splashed gloom of a black and white tiled hall, a long curve of staircase, a smell of pot-pourri, of generations of beeswax, a bowl of plum blossom on an almost black polished oak table, some chairs with faded needlework covers and curly legs, like spirals of candy. What were they called? She must learn about furniture. A fire that had almost gone out in a wide stone fireplace, two Labrador dogs making a rush at her. And a plump woman whose mouth looked a bit pinched.
