CHAPTER SEVENThere was dancing later on in the room which used to be the library. The books were still there, big handsomely bound sets like Gibbon’s Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire and the Encyclopedia Britannica, with the Victorian novelists in their serried rows—Trollope, Charles Reade, Dickens, Thackeray, and the rest. There was no dust on them—Warne House was much too well run for that—but it was probably close on fifty years since anyone had taken one of the volumes down to read.
Stacy, with every intention of slipping away upstairs, found herself supporting Myra Constantine on one side whilst Lady Minstrell held her up on the other. It was Hester Constantine who had managed to slip away. Myra weighed fifteen stone if she weighed an ounce. She was not exactly lame, but as she p
