With a careless shrug of her shoulders, she strutted into the
passage, and, whistling to Karl and Max who, contrary to their custom,
would not keep to heel, made another inspection of the kitchens. At
the top of the cellar steps she halted. The darkness had now set in
everywhere, and she argued that it would be foolish to venture into
such dungeon-like places without a light. She soon found one, and,
armed with candle and matches, began her descent. There were several
cellars, and they presented such a dismal, dark appearance, that she
instinctively drew her skirts tightly round her, and exchanged the
slender riding-whip for a poker. She whistled again to her dogs. They
did not answer, so she called them both by name angrily. But for some
reason (some quite unaccountable reason, she told herself) they would
not come.
She ransacked her mind to recall some popular operatic air, and
although she knew scores she could not remember one. Indeed, the only
air that filtered back to her was one she detested--a Vaudeville tune
she had heard three nights in succession, when she was staying with a
student friend in the Latin Quarter in Paris. She hummed it loudly,
however, and, holding the lighted candle high above her head, walked
down the steps. At the bottom she stood still and listened. From high
above her came noises which sounded like the rumbling of distant
thunder, but which, on analysis, proved to be the rattling of
window-frames. Reassured that she had no cause for alarm, Lady Adela
advanced.
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