The Black Cabinet by Patricia Wentworth Read Free Book Online

betrayed no interest. Chloe in her silver frock might just as well have been the stout Miss Jones with her red hair and the pink ostrich feather trimming sewn by Chloe’s own fingers upon the garment which she declared had been copied from old Mrs. Duffy’s pink flannelette nightgown.
    Mr. Fossetter’s talk touched lightly upon the surface of things in general. The warm sympathy that had tinged his voice the other day was absent from it now. Even whilst he danced with Chloe his eyes followed Monica Gresson round the room, and when the dance was over he rejoined her with alacrity.
    It was at this moment that Lady Gresson touched Chloe on the arm.
    â€œHere is some one who wishes to make your acquaintance, my dear—your—your cousin, Mr. Mitchell Dane.”
    Chloe looked up; she had to look up a long way, because Mitchell Dane was so very tall. She saw him standing there before her, very tall and very thin, an old man with a face that puzzled her because it reminded her of something, she did not quite know what. She thought of a splinter of ice, of a fine steel thread, and of grey snow-clouds. These three images came into her mind and brought with them a chill. Her colour changed a little. It was as if, coming out of a warm and lighted room, she had met the stab of the east wind. All this in just the second when their eyes met. Cold—that was the key-note of the impression. She thought he looked as if he had never been warm in his life: eyes a faint, icy blue; lips just a pale line.
    â€œI’m afraid I do not dance,” he said. “Can you bear to sit out whilst other people are dancing?”
    Chloe smiled at him. It was rather an extra nice smile, because she felt sorry for anyone who looked all frozen up like that—this was Chloe’s own way of putting it.
    â€œI should like to talk to you for a little, if I may,” said Mitchell Dane.
    They went up into the gallery. From where she sat Chloe could see the swing and movement of the dance, the light and colour below. Mitchell Dane sat with his back to the room and his eyes on Chloe.
    â€œDo you remember Danesborough?” he asked; and Chloe answered:
    â€œOh, yes. I was nine years old, you know; I can remember things that happened when I was four.”
    â€œIt’s sometimes a mistake to remember too much,” said Mitchell Dane. “Half the people in the world make their own troubles by forgetting what they ought to remember; and then they keep ’em alive by remembering what they ought to forget.”
    â€œOught I to forget Danesborough? It doesn’t make me discontented, you know. It’s like a nice secret that I can take out and look at.”
    â€œYou liked Danesborough then? You remember it pleasantly? All the secrets that people take out and look at when they are alone are not pleasant ones, you know.”
    Chloe felt as if he had touched her with a cold finger. She was sorry for him, because she thought he must be very lonely. She was interested too, and a little excited.
    â€œYou liked Danesborough then?” he repeated.
    â€œI loved it,” said Chloe. Her voice was warm with memory.
    â€œWhat did you love? Tell me a little about it. You see I’m interested because I live there—you know that, I suppose.”
    â€œYes—oh, yes—Monica Gresson told me.”
    â€œWell, what did you love at Danesborough?”
    â€œI think everything. It’s being so big—that was one thing. I could get right away from everyone and play hide-and-seek. And I did love the horses, and the dogs, and all the creatures.”
    â€œCreatures?”
    â€œBirds, and squirrels,” said Chloe nodding, “and fish in the ponds—everything except the hens. I don’t think I could ever love a hen; they’re so stupid, and hot, and feathery.”
    â€œWould you like to go back to Danesborough?” said Mitchell Dane. He looked very directly at Chloe as he