Stonehouse reflected as he followed the shrivelled old woman down a
passage dim and gorgeous with an expensive and impossible Orientalism,
a natural sequel to his enmity. Men did not hate her--or they did so
at their peril. Then she would be most dangerous. The luckless
Frederick, so the story ran, had snubbed her at a charity bazaar, and
had made fun of her dancing. And he had stolen and finally shot
himself for her sake. Perhaps she thought there was a sort of
inevitability in this programme.

He had to wonder at and even admire the mad splendour of the place.
Her taste was as crude and flamboyant as herself, but it too had
escaped vulgarity which at its worst is imitative of the best, a stupid
second-handness, an aggressive insolent self-distrust. She was not
ashamed of what she was. She was herself all through, and she trusted
herself absolutely. She wanted colour and there was colour. She
wanted Greek columns in a Chinese pagoda and they were there. The
house was like a temple built by a crazy architect to a crazy god, and
every stick and stone in it was a fanatic's offering.

The old woman jerked her head and stood aside. Her toil-worn face with
the melancholy monkey eyes was inscrutable, but Stonehouse guessed at
the swift analysis he was undergoing. In his iron temper he could
afford to be amused.

"Mademoiselle is within."

The room was a huge square. To make it, two floors at least of the
respectable Kensington house must have been sacrificed. The walls were
decorated with Egyptian frescoes and Chinese embroideries, and silk
divans which might have figured in a cinema producer's idea of a