Dancers in Mourning Read Online Free Page A

overworked, thinks too much, no peace at all, always in the thick of things, always in a hurry …’
    He hesitated as though debating on a confidence not quite in good taste.
    â€˜It’s a rum
ménage
for a decent house,’ he remarked at last. ‘Don’t know what the old servants make of it. My own first experience of Bohemia, don’t you know. Not at all what I thought.’
    He sounded a little regretful and Campion glanced at him.
    â€˜Disappointing?’ he inquired.
    â€˜No, my boy; no, not exactly.’ Uncle William was ashamed of himself. ‘Freedom, you know, great freedom, but only in the things that don’t matter, if you see what I mean. Very rational, really. Like you to meet ’em all. Turn down here. This is the beginnin’ of the estate. It’s a modern house on an old site. This is the park.’
    Mr Campion turned the nose of the car down a flint lane leading off the secondary road. High banks, topped by a chase of limes and laurels so dear to the privacy-loving hearts of an earlier generation, rose on either side. His passenger regarded these screens with satisfaction.
    â€˜I like all this,’ he said. ‘Since it’s a right-of-way, very sensible. Notice this?’
    He waved a plump hand towards a high rustic bridge overgrown with ramblers which spanned the road ahead of them.
    â€˜Pretty, isn’t it? Useful too. Saves havin’ steps down to the road. The house, the lawns and the lake are over here to the right and there’s an acre or two of park on the other side. Must cost him a pretty penny to keep up.’
    They passed under the bridge and came on to the drive proper, wide and circular, leading up to the house. Campion, who had entertained misgivings at the term ‘modern,’ was reassured.
    Standing on high ground, its wide windows open to catch a maximum of sun, was one of those rare triumphs of the sounder architects of the earlier part of the century. There was nothing of the villa in its white walls and re-stiled roof. It possessed a fine generosity of line and proportion and succeeded in looking somehow like a great white yacht in full sail.
    â€˜French-looking,’ commented Uncle William complacently. ‘Take the car through into the yard. Like you to see the stables.’
    They passed under the archway of the stable buildings on the left of the house and came into a brick yard where several cars were already parked. Apart from Sutane’s own black Bentley there were two small sports cars and one remarkable contraption of considerable age on which a young man in overalls and a cloth cap was at work. He grinned at Uncle William.
    â€˜It’s back again, sir,’ he said. ‘Universal joint gone this time.’ He nodded to Campion with impartial friendliness, indicated a parking spot, and returned to his work.
    â€˜See what I mean?’ said Mr Faraday in one of his disastrous asides. ‘No formality in the whole place. That’s Petrie’s car he’s at work on. Feller they call “Sock.” Can’t quite understand him. Like your opinion.’
    As they emerged from the archway Mr Campion became aware of a certain hesitation in his companion’s manner and, looking up, he saw the cause coming down the drive towards them. It was Chloe Pye.
    She was dressed in a small white swim-suit, high-heeled shoes and a child’s sunbonnet, and managed to look every one of her forty-odd years. Off the stage she, too, presented some of that self-exaggeration which had been so noticeable in Sutane. Her body was hard and muscular and one saw that her face was old rather because of the stuff it was made of than because of any defect of line or contour. She was swinging a long bright scarf and carried a book and a deck-chair.
    At the sight of the visitors she threw the scarf round her shoulders and stood hesitating, arch and helpless.
    â€˜How providential!’ she called to Uncle