see the house. Would _les messieurs_
kindly accompany him? His aspect wept, and mine (unless it belied me)
copied his. "Isn't it hateful?" I asked, _sotto voce_, of the Boy,
expecting sympathy which I did not get. "No, I think it's great fun,"
said he.

"But I'm sure they are not in the habit of showing the house. You can
tell by the man's manner. He's nonplussed. I should think no one has
ever had the cheek to apply for permission before."

"Then they ought to be complimented because we have."

I was silenced, though far from convinced; but if you have made an
engagement with an executioner, it is a point of honour not to sneak
off and leave him in the lurch, when he has taken the trouble to
sharpen his axe, and put on his red suit and mask for your benefit.

We arrived, after a walk through a pretty garden, upon a terrace where
there was a marvellous view. The gardener showed it to us solemnly, we
pacing after him all round the chateau, as if we played a game. At the
open front door we were left alone for a few minutes, heavy with
suspense, while our guide held secret conclave with a personable woman
who was no doubt a housekeeper. Astonished, but civil, with dignified
Italian courtesy she finally invited us in, and I was coward enough
to let the Boy lead, I following with a casual air, meant to show that
I had been dragged into this business against my will; that I was, in
fact, the tail of a comet which must go where the cornet leads.

Everywhere, inside the castle, were traces that the family had fled
with precipitation. Here was a bicycle leaning abject against a wall;
there, an open book thrown on the floor; here, a fallen chair; there,
a dropped piece of sewing.

Once or twice in England, I had stayed in a famous show-house, and my
experience on the public Thursdays there had taught me what these
people were enduring now. At Waldron Castle we had been hunted from
pillar to post; if we darted from the hall into a drawing-room, the
public would file in before we could escape to the boudoir; the lives
of foxes in the hunting season could have been little less disturbed
than ours, and we were practically only safe in our own or each
other's bedrooms--indeed, any port was precious in a storm.

By the time that the Boy and I had been led, like stalled oxen,
through a long series of living-rooms, I knowing that the rightful
inhabitants were panting in wardrobes, my nerves were shattered. I
admired everything, v