There were two
Wolfstein children, a boy and a girl of eleven and twelve; small,
swarthy, frog-like, self-possessed. They already spoke three languages,
and their protruding eyes looked almost diseased with intelligence.
The Wolfstein house, which was in Curzon Street, was not pretty,
Apparently neither Mrs. Wolfstein nor her husband, who was a financier
and company promoter on a very large scale, had good taste in furniture
and decoration. The mansion was spacious but dingy. There was a great
deal of chocolate and fiery yellow paint. There were many stuffy brown
carpets, and tables which were unnecessarily solid. In the hall were
pillars which looked as if they were made of brawn, and arches with
lozenges of azure paint in which golden stars appeared rather
meretriciously. A plaster statue of Hebe, with crinkly hair and staring
eyeballs, stood in a corner without improving matters. That part of the
staircase which was not concealed by the brown carpet was dirty white. An
immense oil painting of a heap of dead pheasants, rabbits and wild duck,
lying beside a gun and a pair of leather gaiters, immediately faced the
hall door, which was opened by two enormous men with yellow complexions
and dissipated eyes. Mrs. Wolfstein was at home, and one of the enormous
men lethargically showed Lady Holme upstairs into a drawing-room which
suggested a Gordon Hotel. She waited for about five minutes on a brown
and yellow sofa near a table on which lay some books and several
paper-knives, and then Mrs.
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