III
My reception at the Pale Horse was conventional in the extreme. I don’tknow what particular atmospheric¹ effect I had expected—but it was notthis.
Thyrza Grey, wearing a plain dark wool dress, opened the door, said in abusinesslike tone: “Ah, here you are. Good. We’ll have supper straight-away—”
Nothing could have been more matter-of-fact, more completely ordin-ary….
The table was laid for a simple meal at the end of the panelled hall. Wehad soup, an omelette, and cheese. Bella waited on us. She wore a blackstuff dress and looked more than ever like one of the crowd in an Italianprimitive. Sybil struck a more exotic note. She had on a long dress of somewoven peacock-coloured fabric², shot with gold. Her beads³ were absent onthis occasion, but she had two heavy gold bracelets⁴ clasping her wrists.
She ate a minute portion of omelette but nothing else. She spoke⁵ little,treating us to a faraway wrapped-up-in-higher-things mood. It ought tohave been impressive. Actually it was not. The effect was theatrical⁶ andunreal.
Thyrza Grey provided what conversation there was — a brisk chattycommentary on local happenings. She was this evening the British coun-try spinster to the life, pleasant, efficient, uninterested in anything beyondher immediate⁷ surroundings.
I thought to myself, I’m mad, completely mad. What is there to fearhere? Even Bella seemed tonight only a half-witted old peasant woman—like hundreds of other women of her kind—inbred, untouched by educa-tion or a broader outlook.
My conversation with Mrs. Dane Calthrop seemed fantastic in retro-spect. We had worked ourselves up to imagine goodness knows what. Theidea of Ginger⁸—Ginger with her dyed hair and assumed name—being indanger from anything these three very ordinary women could do, waspositively ludicrous!

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