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“It’s not so very big,” said Roberta.
“Quite small, really,” said Henry.
“I don’t mean it’s not thrilling,” said Roberta. “It is. I–I feel as if I’d like to be — sort of inside it.”
“I know,” agreed Henry. “Let’s nip out, Frid, and walk round the corner to Angelo’s.”
He said to the chauffeur: “Pick us up in twenty minutes, will you, Mayling?”
“Here’s a jam,” said Frid. “Now’s our chance. Come on.”
Henry opened the door and took Roberta’s hand. She scrambled out. The voyage, the ship, and the sea all slid away into remoteness. A new experience took Roberta and the sounds that are London engulfed her.
Chapter III
Preparation for a Charade
The Lampreys lived in two flats which occupied the entire top story of a building known as Pleasaunce Court Mansions. Pleasaunce Court is merely a short street co
“LORD AND LADY CHARLES LAMPREY. OUT, I fancy,” muttered Henry.
“Oh, are they!” cried Roberta. “Are they away?”
“No,” said Henry. “Ssh!”
“Ssh!” said Frid.
They moved their heads slightly in the direction of the door. A small man wearing a bowler hat stood on the pavement outside and appeared to consult an envelope in his hands. He looked up at the front of the flats and then approached the steps.
“In to the lift!” Henry muttered and opened the doors. Roberta in a state of extreme bewilderment entered the lift. A porter, heavily smart in a dark green uniform and several medals, came out of an office.
“Hullo, Stamford,” said Henry. “Good morning to you. Mayling’s got some luggage out there in the car.”
“I’ll attend to it, sir,” said the porter.
“Thank you so much,” murmured the Lampreys politely, and Henry added, “His lordship is away this morning, Stamford.”
“Indeed, sir?” said the porter. “Thank you, sir.”
“Up we go,” said Henry.
The porter shut them in, Henry pressed a button and with a metallic sigh the lift took them to the top of the building.
“Stamford doesn’t work the lift,” explained Henry. “He’s only for show and to look after the service flats downstairs.”
In three days, photographs of the Pleasaunce Court lift would appear in six illustrated papers and in the files of the criminal-investigation department. It would be lit by flash lamps, sealed, dusted with powder, measured and described. It would be discussed by several million people. It was about to become famous. To Roberta it seemed very smart and she did not notice that, like the entrance hall, it had been modernized. The old liftman’s apparatus, a handle projecting from a cylindrical casing was still there but above it was a row of buttons with the Lampreys’ floor, the fourth, at the top. They came out on a well-lit landing with two light green doors numbered 25 and 26. Henry pushed No. 25 open and Roberta crossed a threshold into the past. The sensation of Deepacres, of that still-recurrent dream, came upon her so poignantly that she caught her breath. Here was the very scent of Deepacres, of the scented oil Lady Charles burnt in the drawing-room, of Turkish cigarettes, of cut flowers and of moss. The sense of smell works both consciously and subconsciously. About many households is an individual pleasantness of which human noses are only half aware and which is so subtle that it ca
“Is that old Robin Grey?”
Roberta ran through the doorway into her arms.
There they all were, in a long white drawing-room with crackling fires at each end and a great gaiety of flowers. Lady Charles, thi
“Such fun, darling,” said all the Lampreys in their soft voices. “Such fun to see you.”
Presently they were all sitting before the fire, with Charlot in her chair and Henry in his old place on the hearthrug and the twins collapsed on the sofa. Patch hurled herself onto the arm of Robin’s chair, and Frid stood in an elegant attitude before the fire, and Lord Charles wandered vaguely about the room.
“Dear me,” said Henry, “I feel like Uriah Heep. It’s as good as the chiming of old bells to see Robin Grey in the flesh.”
The twins murmured agreeably and Colin said: “You haven’t grown much.”
“I know,” said Roberta. “I’m a pygmy.”
“A nice pygmy,” said Charlot.
“Do you think she’s pretty?” asked Frid. “I do.”
“Not exactly pretty,” said Stephen. I’d call her attractive.”
“Really!” Said Lord Charles mildly. “Does Robin, who I must say looks delightful, enjoy a public dissection of her charms?”
“Yes,” said Roberta. “From the family, I do.”
“Of course she does,” shouted Patch, dealing Roberta a violent buffet across the shoulders.
“What do you think of me?” asked Frid, striking an attitude. “Aren’t I quite, quite lovely?”
“Don’t tell her she is,” said Colin. “The girl’s a nymphomaniac.”
“Darling!” murmured Lady Charles.
“My dear Colin,” said his father, “it really would be a good idea if you stick to the words you understand.”
“Well,” Frid reasoned, “you may thank your lucky stars I am so lovely. After all, looks go a long way on the stage. I may have to keep you all, and in the near future, too.”
“Apropos,” said Henry, “I fancy there’s a bum downstairs, chaps.”
“Oh no!” cried the Lampreys.
“The signs are ominous. I told Stamford you were out, Daddy.”
“Then I suppose I’d better stay in,” muttered Lord Charles. “Who can it be this time? Not Smith & Weekly’s again, surely? I wrote them an admirable letter explaining that—”
“Circumstances over which we had no control,” suggested Stephen.
“I put it better than that, Stephen.”
“Mike,” said Lady Charles, “be an angel and run out on the landing. If you see a little man—”
“In a bowler,” said Henry and Frid.
“Yes, of course in a bowler. If you see him, don’t say anything but just come and tell Mummy, darling, will you?”
“Righto,” said Mike politely. “Is he a bum, Mummy?”
“We think so but it’s nothing to worry about. Do hurry, Mikey darling.”
Mike gri