Free Nothing Can Rescue Me by Elizabeth Daly Page A

flight.
    â€œFunnily arranged, Underhill,” he remarked.
    â€œIs it?”
    â€œDon’t you think so? It has only two entrances, front and back; and the back one is a continuation of this hall we’re standing in. Or has it been changed?”
    â€œNo, it’s just the same.”
    â€œWith the kitchen on one side and the pantry on the other?”
    â€œYes. The dishes do have to be carried across the hall.”
    â€œAnd the only entrance to the dining-room is at the end of a transverse passage—with the servants’ sitting-room opposite the kitchen at the other end?”
    â€œYes. What of it?”
    â€œPoor Thomas.”
    Sylvanus Hutter appeared from around the front stairs.
    â€œThere you are, you two,” he said. “Cocktails.”
    Gamadge was delighted with the new drawing-room of Underhill; it had been formed from the old front and back parlours, and was now long and wide, with four windows to the north and two to the east. It was full of colour. Chinese flowers and birds were on the walls, on the soft-upholstered chairs and sofas, on the porcelains that contained dark red roses. “Nice, isn’t it?” agreed Sylvanus.
    â€œLovely.”
    â€œRather an improvement on the cabbage roses and the malachite. We’ve kept practically nothing but the mantelpiece.” They advanced on the group around that fine elevation of white marble. Mrs. Mason sat in front of the fire in a bluish-purple costume, long and trailing; she had a cocktail glass in her hand, and beckoned to Gamadge with a festive sweep of it. The others looked at him.
    â€œCome and meet people, Henry,” she called. “But first get your drink, do.”
    Thomas and a large blonde maid supplied Gamadge with a cocktail and a canapé. He came forward, looking amiable.
    â€œThis is Susie Burt.” A pretty girl with red hair, who stood behind the sofa talking to Mason, nodded. “You knew her mother,” continued Mrs. Mason. “Susie, Mr. Gamadge knew your mother.”
    â€œAnd father,” said Gamadge.
    Miss Burt, who did not reach to Mason’s shoulder, turned large blue eyes on him. They had a fine, bold gaze, more mature than one would have expected at first sight of her round face, with its delightful nose that turned up and its childlike mouth that turned down. But a second glance told Gamadge that she was in her late twenties. Wish I could have seen her ten years ago, he thought, returning the blue stare with one of benevolence.
    â€œHow do you do?” said Miss Burt. She did not look as though she cared to be cherished on account of her parents.
    â€œMiss Wing,” said Mrs. Mason, “Mr. Gamadge.”
    A dark girl with a pale face bowed to him. A thin face it was, with delicate features; and her eyes, after all, were not dark but grey-blue. Her thick, fine hair was cut short, and made a long neck seem longer. She wore tweeds and a yellow-silk shirt.
    Good at sports, thought Gamadge, noting the long, well-muscled figure and the easy pose of it. Or was, he added, until she got ill and then had to work for a living indoors. Seen trouble.
    â€œHow do you do?” said Miss Wing, and turned her eyes away.
    â€œAnd Glen Percy,” said Mrs. Mason, with a smile for the dark young man who stood with his elbow on the mantelshelf. “He’s a perfect darling when he’s behaving himself, and you’ll simply love him.”
    â€œWhat I say is,” said the young man in a tone of deprecation, “let’s keep our heads, even if we are tight.”
    â€œYou horrid child, I am not tight!”
    Gamadge was not quite sure of it; Mrs. Mason was undoubtedly bolstering up her courage with the aid of excellent Martinis. She took another from the tray, as Gamadge shook hands with Mr. Percy and looked at him with some interest.
    Percy’s voice had proclaimed him a Southerner, and something—some elegance, some native languor that