He was half enveloped in the drapery
of a cold dirty curtain, and nervously stuck out a hand,
which Philip took and found thick and damp. There were more
murmurs of approval from the stairs.
"Well, din-din's nearly ready," said Lilia. "Your
room's down the passage, Philip. You needn't go changing."
He stumbled away to wash his hands, utterly crushed by
her effrontery.
"Dear Caroline!" whispered Lilia as soon as he had
gone. "What an angel you've been to tell him! He takes it
so well. But you must have had a MAUVAIS QUART D'HEURE."
Miss Abbott's long terror suddenly turned into acidity.
"I've told nothing," she snapped. "It's all for you--and if
it only takes a quarter of an hour you'll be lucky!"
Dinner was a nightmare. They had the smelly dining-room
to themselves. Lilia, very smart and vociferous, was at the
head of the table; Miss Abbott, also in her best, sat by
Philip, looking, to his irritated nerves, more like the
tragedy confidante every moment. That scion of the Italian
nobility, Signor Carella, sat opposite. Behind him loomed a
bowl of goldfish, who swam round and round, gaping at the guests.
The face of Signor Carella was twitching too much for
Philip to study it. But he could see the hands, which were
not particularly clean, and did not get cleaner by fidgeting
amongst the shining slabs of hair. His starched cuffs were
not clean either, and as for his suit, it had obviously been
bought for the occasion as something really English--a
gigantic check, which did not even fit.
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