“Beggars can’t be choosers, Miss Tippett!” Horatio made no attempt to lift the coat from his knees.
“As long as you paint your delightful landscapes”—she must humour the old man—“how can you speak of want?” There was a new sketch of a girl on the mantelpiece; she resembled Eve a little, sitting on a bank with a ribboned hat in her lap. “Is that another picture? We must take it down with us and show it to Mrs. Spenser.” She tried to force his stiff arms into the sleeves.
“Oh, just a petite water colour nobody wants these days. I call it June.” Flattered in spite of himself, Horatio let her draw his gloves on; it was the first time that he had seemed really helpless. His hands were blue and cold, and he made no attempt even to button up his collar. “If this goes on,” Selina chattered, folding up his rug, “we shall have to take to sleeping bags. I wonder if you could manage to carry your pillow?” He seemed not to hear her, and she had to lead him to the door, though he stopped and picked up his little painting as they passed it.
Once Horatio’s light was out, the corridor seemed endless. It was impossible to hurry him, though Selina thought grimly of the scramble they would have outside without a torch. They bumped down, a stair at a time, but though the rug was lighter than the suitcase, Rashleigh let his full weight drag on her arm, and she was afraid that they might both topple forward to the bottom. He did not speak, and she had a sense of the walls being alive, of shadows watching her, laughing at her, as if the thoughts of people whom she had never known, the original dwellers in the house, had been released from cracks and keyholes. It was unnatural, there were no other words to describe it, and she had never had so lost a feeling before except once when she had missed her way in a fog.
“It’s not far,” she said reassuringly as they stepped into the street. Was it imagination or had it really grown clearer? “Did I switch out the light?” she asked, and to make sure she flashed her torch inside the letter box. Even if she had left her money or keys upstairs she could never go again through that dark hall. She rattled the handle to make sure everything was locked. “Now, Mr. Rashleigh, slowly and steadily; are you on the pavement all right? Let’s count our steps and we’ll be at Dobbie’s”—she had been going to say—“in a moment,” but the guns started, like a pack of wolves, and the road itself vibrated under their feet.
“You know, I think this blackout is worse than the raid!” Selina felt for the railing and began to creep forward. They must look like two blind pilgrims in one of the grimmer mysteries.
The noise was tremendous. It was not like thunder, it was angrier. Planes seemed to be directly overhead as if the whir of a mosquito had been magnified many times. “Take my arm, Mr. Rashleigh, we must hurry!”
Swift movement, however, was impossible. Horatio merely upset her balance, and she wondered if she ought to jettison the rugs. There seemed to be nobody in the street at all when the flashes lit up the darkness. They lurched along as if they were on a rolling ship, and the cold wind started Mr. Rashleigh coughing.
Half the sky seemed to explode over their heads and crash. “It’s all right”—she tried to be as gay as possible—“they say if you hear them it isn’t so dangerous.”
“Thank you, Miss Tippett, but I am going back.” Horatio jerked his arm away and turned. Something whistled down a few yards along the road.
“You can’t, Mr. Rashleigh, you can’t!” Why, the obstinate old fool, he would never find the door; he couldn’t get up those stairs alone, and duty or no duty she could not enter that house again tonight; no, not if it meant a lifetime of regret. “We are almost there, and then we can have a nice cup of tea.”
“I prefer to hug my own hot-water bottle; we can only die once!” He started walking with amazing rapidity back towards the Warming Pan.
“You can’t!” Selina shrieked, grabbing his shoulder quite roughly. “The door has stuck, and we’ve got to get into the shelter. That was shrapnel.”
“It’s the noise, the terrible noise….” Horatio put up his hand protestingly and at that moment Selina tripped over the fringe of the rug. She fell into the arms of a figure who stepped out of a doorway, saying, “Can I help?”
“Oh, Colonel Ferguson!” She recognized the voice.
“We are trying to get to Mr. Dobbie’s basement.” Ferguson took Horatio firmly by the arm. “Come along, it’s not a healthy night for any of us to be abroad. Suppose you go ahead, Miss Tippett, to show us the way?” He tucked the bedding under his other arm.
The sky was a soft velvet that flashes turned into a gala of exploding candles. The guns had stopped momentarily but the planes seemed at chimney level and directly above them. People are dying every minute, Selina thought, but I can’t realize it; nothing seems real. I don’t even know whether I am frightened or not. The glow from a fire a long distance off lit up the doors, and she did not have her usual struggle with the keyhole. They led Horatio inside; he was muttering something but they could not catch the words.
“Oh, there you are,” Angelina shouted; “I was beginning to get worried about you!” The sudden light in the basement was dazzling. Some people were knitting, others were sipping tea. Selina glanced at her watch;
