They ran across the road. Hugh led her down the steps, past a sign saying "Tradesmen's Entrance," to the basement area. By the time they reached the doorway she was soaked to the skin. Hugh unlocked the door. Putting a finger to his lips to indicate silence, he ushered her inside.
She hesitated for a fraction of a second, wondering whether she should ask exactly what he had in mind; but the thought slipped away and she stepped through the door.
They tiptoed through a kitchen the size of a small church to a narrow staircase. Hugh put his mouth to her ear and said: "There'll be clean towels upstairs. We'll take the back staircase."
She followed him up three long flights, then they passed through another door and emerged on a landing. He glanced through an open doorway into a bedroom where a night-light burned. In a normal voice he said: "Edward's still out. There's no one else on this floor. Aunt and Uncle's rooms are on the floor below us and the servants above. Come."
He led her into his bedroom and turned up the gaslight. "I'll fetch towels," he said, and he went out again.
She took off her hat and looked around the room. It was surprisingly small, and furnished simply, with a single bed, a dresser, a plain wardrobe, and a small desk. She had expected something much more luxurious--but Hugh was a poor relation, and his room reflected that.
She looked with interest at his things. He had a pair of silver-backed hair brushes engraved with the initials T.P.--another heirloom from his father. He was reading a book called The Handbook of Good Commercial Practice. On the desk was a framed photograph of a woman and a girl about six years old. She slid open the drawer of his bedside table. There was a Bible and another book underneath it. She moved the Bible aside and read the title of the concealed book: it was called The Duchess of Sodom. She realized she was prying. Feeling guilty, she closed the drawer quickly.
Hugh came back with a pile of towels. Maisie took one. It was warm from an airing cupboard, and she buried her wet face in it gratefully. This is what it's like to be rich, she thought; great piles of warm towels whenever you need them. She dried her bare arms and her bosom. "Who's the picture of?" she asked him.
"My mother and my sister. My sister was born after my father died."
"What's her name?"
"Dorothy. I call her Dotty. I'm very fond of her."
"Where do they live?"
"In Folkestone, by the sea."
Maisie wondered if she would ever meet them.
