an uneventful round of pleasures. Of all the gay
party George alone was unhappy. Lord Timpany was paying his court to
Georgiana, and it was clear that he was not unfavourably received.
George looked on, and his soul was a hell of jealousy and despair. The
boisterous company of the young men became intolerable to him; he shrank
from them, seeking gloom and solitude. One morning, having broken away
from them on some vague pretext, he returned to the house alone. The
young men were bathing in the pool below; their cries and laughter
floated up to him, making the quiet house seem lonelier and more silent.
The lovely sisters and their mamma still kept their chambers; they did
not customarily make their appearance till luncheon, so that the male
guests had the morning to themselves. George sat down in the hall and
abandoned himself to thought.

"At any moment she might die; at any moment she might become Lady
Timpany. It was terrible, terrible. If she died, then he would die
too; he would go to seek her beyond the grave. If she became Lady
Timpany...ah, then! The solution of the problem would not be so simple.
If she became Lady Timpany: it was a horrible thought. But then suppose
she were in love with Timpany--though it seemed incredible that anyone
could be in love with Timpany--suppose her life depended on Timpany,
suppose she couldn't live without him? He was fumbling his way along
this clueless labyrinth of suppositions when the clock struck twelve. On
the last stroke, like an automaton released by the turning clockwork, a
little maid, holding a large covered tray, popped out of the door that
led from the kitchen regions into the hall. From his deep arm-chair
George watched her (himself, it was evident, unobserved) with an idle
curiosity. She pattered across the room and came to a halt in front of
what seemed a blank expense of panelling. She reached out her hand and,
to George's extreme astonishment, a little door swung open, revealing
the foot of a winding staircase. Turning sideways in order to get her
tray through the narrow opening, the little maid darted in with a rapid
crab-like motion. The door closed behind her with a click. A minute
later it opened again and the maid, without her tray, hurried back
across the hall and disappeared in the direction of the kitchen. George
tried to recompose his thoughts, but an invincible curiosity drew his
mind towards the hidden door, the staircase, the little maid. It was in
va