It seemed so long ago now, long, long ago, another world, another age since, easily chatting, they had gone up the splendid sweep of the staircase and into that other room. A lovely room—square, high ceilinged, furnished as far as possible in keeping with its eighteenth century air; there was even, though nowadays its curtains were of nylon, a four-poster bed. Her hostess had stirred up the fire to a blaze and kissed her goodnight—wished they hadn’t talked so much to her this evening about all the silly village gossip, hoped she was all right, was she, darling?—and smiled and gone away. In her dressing gown and nightie, the oil lamp glowing softly on the table by the bedside, she had sat down before the cheerfully crackling little fire to brush out her silky hair. She loved brushing her hair, sitting by the fireside, dreaming. Her thoughts drifted off, a million miles from suicides and hauntings. A young girl had killed herself after sleeping in this room—but that had been fifty, sixty years ago; a woman more recently, but she had been newly widowed and still grieving.
