with small, cylindrical watch-towers; the windows were mere slits between the great stones, and the massive entranceway seemed fitted for a portcullis, yet a great, hemispherical dome rose from, the center of the building, and a wide, shallow portico with graceful, fluted columns topped by Doric capitals stood before the gateway.
Cocktail hour had just struck as we passed through the wide entrance to the main hall, and a party of sleek-haired gentlemen and ladies in fashionably scanty attire were gathered before the cavernous fireplace, chatting and laughing as they imbibed the appetite-whetting amber drinks.
It was an enormous apartment, that hall, clear fifty feet from tiled floor to vaulted ceiling, and the darkness was scarcely more than stained by the flickering glow of blazing logs in the fireplace and the yellow beams of the tall, ecclesiastical candles which stood, singly, in high, wrought-iron standards at intervals along the walls. Draped down the bare stone sides of the hall hung a pair of prodigious tapestries, companion pieces, I thought, depicting particularly gory battle scenes, and I caught a fugitive glimpse of a black-armored knight with a cross-emblazoned surtout hacking the turbaned head from a saracen, and the tag end of the Latin legend beneath—"ad Major em Dei Gloriam."
Piloted by our host we mounted the wide, balustraded staircase to the second of three balconies which ran round three sides of the long hall, found the big, barnlike room assigned us, changed quickly to dinner clothes, and joined the other guests in time to file through a high archway to the oak-paneled apartment where dinner was served by candle-light on a long refectory table set with, the richest silver and most opulent linen I had ever seen.
Greatly to his chagrin de Grandin drew a kittenish, elderly spinster with gleaming and palpably false dentition. I was paired off with a Miss O'Shane, a tall, tawny-haired girl with tapering, statuesque limbs and long, smooth-jointed fingers, the milk-white skin of the pure-bred Celt and smoldering, rebellious eyes of indeterminate color.
During the soup and fish courses she was taciturn to the point of churlishness, responding to my attempts at conversation with curt, uni-syllabic replies, but as the claret glasses were filled for the roast, she turned her strange, half-resentful gaze directly on me and demanded: "Dr. Trowbridge, what do you think of this house?"
"Why—er," I temporized, scarcely knowing what to reply, "it seems rather gorgeous, but"
"Yes," she interrupted as I paused at a loss for an exact expression, "but what?"
"Well, rather depressing—too massive and mediæval for present-day people, if you get what I mean."
"I do," she nodded almost angrily. "I most certainly do. It's beastly. I'm a painter—a painter of sorts," she hurried on as my eyes opened in astonishment at her vehemence, "and I brought along some gear to work with between times during the party. Van told me this is liberty hall, and I could do exactly as I pleased, and gave me a big room on the north side for a workshop. I've a commission I've simply got to finish in two weeks, and I began some preliminary sketches yesterday, but" She paused, taking a sip of burgundy and looking at me from the corners of her long, brooding eyes as though speculating whether or not to take me further into her confidence.
"Yes?" I prompted, assuming an air of interest.
"It's no go. Do you remember the Red King in Through the Looking-Glass?"
"The Red King?" I echoed. "I'm afraid I don't, quite."
