"
The whole party exclaimed in joy at this proposal. William Oke looked
puzzled for a moment, and glanced at his wife, who continued to lie
listless on her sofa.
"There is a press full of clothes belonging to the family," he answered
dubiously, apparently overwhelmed by the desire to please his guests;
"but--but--I don't know whether it's quite respectful to dress up in the
clothes of dead people."
"Oh, fiddlestick!" cried the cousin. "What do the dead people know about
it? Besides," he added, with mock seriousness, "I assure you we shall
behave in the most reverent way and feel quite solemn about it all, if only
you will give us the key, old man."
Again Mr. Oke looked towards his wife, and again met only her vague, absent
glance.
"Very well," he said, and led his guests upstairs.
An hour later the house was filled with the strangest crew and the
strangest noises. I had entered, to a certain extent, into William Oke's
feeling of unwillingness to let his ancestors' clothes and personality be
taken in vain; but when the masquerade was complete, I must say that the
effect was quite magnificent. A dozen youngish men and women--those who
were staying in the house and some neighbours who had come for lawn-tennis
and dinner--were rigged out, under the direction of the theatrical cousin,
in the contents of that oaken press: and I have never seen a more beautiful
sight than the panelled corridors, the carved and escutcheoned staircase,
the dim drawing-rooms with their faded tapestries, the great hall with its
vaulted and ribbed ceiling, dotted about with groups or single figures that
seemed to have come straight from the past.
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