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was no gas either. Like the old house, the East Wing was lit by oil lamps and candles. Her hope of finding a telephone faded. The nearest telegraph office was no doubt in Calstock, two miles away by a muddy footpath.
    Lady Dalrymple would just have to come and make the best of it, not a character trait for which she was noted.
    Suppressing a sigh, Daisy entered the room her guide pointed out. Library was a misnomer, for only the far wall had bookshelves, and only halfway up, on either side of a curious little door no more than four feet high. The room was furnished as a sitting room.
    Jemima had vanished, but a scrawny woman with fading fair hair jumped up from one of the massive Victorian sofas, dropping a stocking she was darning. She came to greet Daisy.
    â€œMrs. Fletcher, how do you do!” She spoke with a sort
of impetuous eagerness which had something slightly artificial about it. Her front teeth brought to mind a pet rabbit Daisy had once owned. “I’m Dora Norville, Mrs. Godfrey Norville. How delightful to have you come to stay.”
    â€œYes,” drawled a girl of perhaps nineteen or twenty, coming up behind her, “The Pardon has actually offered to bring our tea! I’m Felicity Norville, Mrs. Fletcher. How do you do?”
    Felicity was the epitome of the modish “bright young thing.” Her blonde hair was bobbed, lips scarlet, eyebrows and lashes darkened. Her boyish figure was emphasized by a wide sash around her hips, such as Daisy would never have dared to wear. Her mauve frock had beaded embroidery all down one side, rather overdoing it for afternoon tea in the country. Mrs. Godfrey wore a much more appropriate tweed skirt, with a hand-knitted cardigan and a modest string of pearls.
    Their greetings answered, Daisy went on, “I’m thrilled to be able to write about Brockdene. In fact there’s so much to write about I don’t know where to begin. What a marvellous place!”
    â€œYou wouldn’t think so if you had to live here,” Felicity muttered.
    Daisy flashed her a smile of sympathy. The isolation must be hard on a young girl dying to try her wings, though presumably whatever local society existed was more accessible in the summer. Still, perhaps Felicity longed for the bright lights of London. From what Daisy had observed, she was unlikely to get there. The “poor” in “poor relations” seemed pretty accurate, while Westmoor apparently
had little regard for the relationship, beyond giving the family a home.
    â€œIt’s a privilege to live at Brockdene,” said Dora Norville brightly. “I’ve always admired it, since I was a girl.”
    â€œYou grew up in this district?”
    â€œIn Calstock, just up the river. Ah, here’s Mother. You’ve met my mother-in-law, haven’t you, Mrs. Fletcher?”
    Mrs. Norville trotted in, spry as a sparrow, followed by Jemima bearing shawls. Mrs. Godfrey jumped up and went to fuss over the old lady. She settled her by the stone fireplace, where a cheerful fire burned beneath a fanciful wooden mantelpiece carved with lions, dragons, cherubs, and musicians.
    â€œAre you warm enough, Mother?” Mrs. Godfrey enquired anxiously, swathing her mother-in-law in shawls.
    â€œQuite warm, dear. Where is my crochet work, Felicity? That’s it. Thank you, dear. I shall have it finished for you in time for Christmas.”
    â€œThanks, Gran darling.” Felicity handed over something lacy in lilac artificial silk, and kissed her grandmother’s dark-skinned cheek.
    â€œHas my son shown you the old house, Mrs. Fletcher?”
    They talked for a few minutes about the house. Dora Norville grew more and more anxious, and at last said, “Perhaps Jemima and I had better fetch the tea after all.” She jumped up, but the door opened before she reached it and Mrs. Pardon and a maid came in. Daisy was pleased to see bread and butter and a good selection of cakes and