III

Hilda said: “So there you are, David. I’ve been looking for you everywhere. Don’t let’s stay in this

room, it’s so frightfully cold.”

David did not answer for a minute. He was standing¹ looking at a chair, a low chair with faded

satin upholstery. He said abruptly²:

“That’s her chair . . . the chair she always sat in . . . just the same—it’s just the same. Only

faded, of course.”

A little frown creased³ Hilda’s forehead. She said:

“I see. Do let’s come out of here, David. It’s frightfully cold.”

David took no notice. Looking round, he said:

“She sat in here mostly. I remember sitting on that stool there while she read to me. Jack⁴ the

Giant Killer⁵—that was it—Jack the Giant Killer. I must have been six years old then.”

Hilda put a firm hand through his arm.

“Come back to the drawing room, dear. There’s no heating in this room.”

He turned obediently, but she felt a little shiver go through him.

“Just the same,” he murmured. “Just the same. As though time had stood still.”

Hilda looked worried. She said in a cheerful determined⁶ voice:

“I wonder where the others are? It must be nearly teatime.”

David disengaged his arm and opened another door.

“There used to be a piano in here . . . Oh, yes, here it is! I wonder if it’s in tune⁷.”

He sat down and opened the lid, running his hands lightly over the keys.

“Yes, it’s evidently kept tuned⁸.”

He began to play. His touch was good, the melody flowed out from under his fingers.

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