At this moment Mrs Wisbeach’s voice rang shrewishly up the stairs:
‘Mister Comstock!’
Gordon went to the door. ‘Yes?’ he called down.
‘Your supper’s been waiting for you this ten minutes. Why can’t you come down and have it, ‘stead of keeping me waiting for the washing up?’
Gordon went down. The dining-room was on the first floor, at the back, opposite Flaxman’s room. It was a cold, close-smelling room, twilit even at midday. There were more aspidistras in it than Gordon had ever accurately counted. They were all over the place, on the sideboard, on the floor, on ‘occasional’ tables; in the window there was a sort of florist’s stand of them, blocking out the light. In the half-darkness, with aspidistras all about you, you had the feeling of being in some sunless aquarium amid the drear
