“We’re old friends,” he commented.
There was silence in the kitchen. Then I said as coolly as I could, addressing myself to Mrs. Couch who was gaping at me: “We sheltered from the rain… in the forest.”
“Did you now,” said Mrs. Couch looking from one of us to the other.
“For about ten minutes,” I added.
“It was long enough for us to become friends,” he replied, still giving me that smile which touched me in a way I could not then understand.
“Mr. Joliffe is quick to make friends,” said Mrs. Couch.
“It saves so much time in life,” he retorted.
“Why didn’t you tell me that you were Mr. Milner’s nephew?”
“I thought I would give you a big surprise. But you might have guessed, you know.”
“You said you were a visitor.”
“So I am.”
“Taking a walk in the forest.”
“So I was, on my way to my uncle’s house. Jess, ask Jeffers to send to the station for my bag.”
“Why yes, Mr. Joliffe,” said Jess blushing.
I felt disconcerted. They were all behaving as though he were some sort of prince. It made me a little impatient.
Mrs. Couch was saying fondly: “Just like you, Mr. Joliffe, to come without a word! We drank the last of the sloe gin last week. Now if I’d have known I’d have kept some back. I know how partial you are to my sloe gin.”
“Nowhere in the world is there sloe gin to compare with that of my dear Mrs. Couch.”
She wriggled in her rocking chair and said: “Go on with you. But I’ll see there’s black-currant tart for your dinner.”
I said I had work to do and went out. I felt his eyes following me as I went.
The house changed because he was in it. I was caught up in the excitement.
Everything was different now. All the solemnity which the presence of Mr. Sylvester Milner brought with it had disappeared. Instead of being a house of certain secrets, somewhat mysterious and now and then a trifle sinister, it was a gay house. He had a habit of whistling rather tunefully. He could imitate the songs of birds and he could produce some of the gayer Sullivan tunes from the Savoy operas with great verve. There was something joyous about him. He appeared to love life and everyone about him was caught up in his enthusiasm for it. He never lost an opportunity of charming everyone and I soon came to the conclusion that he was making a special effort as far as I was concerned.
When I rode out he was beside me; if I went for a walk in the forest I would not have gone far without hearing his whistle behind me. We talked a great deal about ourselves; I told him of my father and his untimely death in the mountains and he told me of his parents’ accident and how he had been brought up between his uncles Sylvester and Redmond.
“In an atmosphere rather like that of Roland’s Croft,” he explained. “Everything seems to be submerged beneath Chinese Art. Do you feel that here?”
“It is Mr. Milner’s business, of course.”
“But everywhere you go there is the influence of China. The vases on the stairs; bits and pieces here and there, and that fellow of my uncle’s shuffling round. Do you feel it?”
“Yes. It fascinates me.”
“That’s because you haven’t been brought up with it. Mind you, I’m in it too… up to my neck.”
“You mean in the business?”
“Yes. Well, why not? I learned how to recognize a Ming vase at my uncle’s knees, you might say. I’m an independent fellow, though. Miss Lindsay. When my uncle Sylvester sent me out to China I got the feeling that I wanted to use my skill, my powers of detection, for myself. Do you understand?”
“Yes. You are yet another branch of the same business.”
“You put it succinctly. We are all in the same lake as it were but we are all pulling our own craft.”
He talked a great deal about Hong Kong—a place which evidently fascinated him. Mr. Sylvester Milner had talked to me too, but differently. With Mr. Sylvester I heard of the various dynasties, how they flourished and passed away. Joliffe made me see a different scene. The green hills running down to sandy beaches on Hong Kong Island; the ladder streets up which people climbed the steep inclines; the letter writers who translated for those who could not read, and wrote to their dictation; the Chinese fortune tellers in the streets, shaking the containers which held the sticks which would be selected and laid out that they might foretell the future; the sampans which made up the floating villages. He talked in a manner which fascinated me and although I had been very interested in what Mr. Sylvester had taught me, this was colorful and alive and it imbued me with a desire to see it for myself.
On the second day of his visit he had asked me where I took my meals.
“Sometimes with my mother in her sitting room, sometimes in the servants’ hall.”
“While I dine in solitary state. It won’t do. You shall dine with me… tête-à-tête, how’s that?”
His word was law. He lightly assumed the place of head of the house while Mr. Sylvester was away. Mrs. Couch without hesitation laid a place for me in the dining room where Mr. Sylvester entertained his guests. I sat at one end of the long table, Joliffe at the other. This amused him, but I felt uneasy wondering what Mr. Sylvester would say if he returned and found me here.
I soon forgot my apprehension though in the intoxicating company of Joliffe Milner.
I remember on the third day after his arrival my mother came to my room.
She said: “Joliffe is very interested in you, Jane.”
“Oh yes,” I said, “it’s the work. He’s in the same business as his uncle.”
My mother looked at me strangely. If feeling exultation in a certain person’s presence, and when he was not there being completely deflated, was being in love, then I was in love with Joliffe Milner. It was clear, I supposed. Even I looking in the minor could see the change in myself.
“Do you think he is a serious young man?” she asked.
“Serious? I hadn’t thought of that. He laughs about most things so one could hardly call him serious.”
I was halted then by the look on my mother’s face and the fleeting thought struck me that she had changed in the last year. Her color was as vivid as ever but her face had fined down a little; her eyes seemed brighter than usual. There was about her a rather secretive look. This was scarcely perceptible but I who knew her so well might be one of the few who noticed. There was a change. Why? I asked myself. What is it? Then I forgot it because my thoughts at this time were dominated by Joliffe Milner.
“He is a very charming man,” said my mother. “Your father was a charming man, but…”
She shrugged her shoulders and my thoughts were too far away to ask her to continue what she was about to say.
I put on my riding kit—my mother’s gift to me—and went out riding. I was joined, as I had hoped I would be, by Joliffe.
And there passed another of those enchanted mornings.
I had my duties and in spite of this new excitement in life I must not ignore them. There was some post to be dealt with. I had always enjoyed working in the little study adjoining Mr. Sylvester’s Chinese Library; I had felt a certain sense of responsibility which was gratifying.
But since Joliffe was at the house, I longed to be out with him.
I had made a habit of going two or three times a week into what I still called the showroom. I had always been thrilled to unlock the door and cross the threshold and to be entirely alone with those precious objects which by now were becoming familiar to me.
But because of Joliffe’s presence in the house I had neglected to go there and when I realized this decided to do so at once.