The Haunting of Hill House by Shirley Jackson Page B

task.”
    “So long as no one makes any puns about spirits and spirits,” Theodora said, holding out her glass to Luke to be filled.
    “Spirits?” The doctor peered at her. “Spirits? Yes, indeed. Of course, none of us . . .” He hesitated, frowning. “Certainly not,” he said and took three quick agitated sips at his cocktail.
    “Everything’s so strange,” Eleanor said. “I mean, this morning I was wondering what Hill House would be like, and now I can’t believe that it’s real, and we’re here.”
    They were sitting in a small room, chosen by the doctor, who had led them into it, down a narrow corridor, fumbling a little at first, but then finding his way. It was not a cozy room, certainly. It had an unpleasantly high ceiling, and a narrow tiled fireplace which looked chill in spite of the fire which Luke had lighted at once; the chairs in which they sat were rounded and slippery, and the light coming through the colored beaded shades of the lamps sent shadows into the corners. The overwhelming sense of the room was purple; beneath their feet the carpeting glowed in dim convoluted patterns, the walls were papered and gilt, and a marble cupid beamed fatuously down at them from the mantel. When they were silent for a moment the quiet weight of the house pressed down from all around them. Eleanor, wondering if she were really here at all, and not dreaming of Hill House from some safe spot impossibly remote, looked slowly and carefully around the room, telling herself that this was real, these things existed, from the tiles around the fireplace to the marble cupid; these people were going to be her friends. The doctor was round and rosy and bearded and looked as though he might be more suitably established before a fire in a pleasant little sitting room, with a cat on his knee and a rosy little wife to bring him jellied scones, and yet he was undeniably the Dr. Montague who had guided Eleanor here, a little man both knowledgeable and stubborn. Across the fire from the doctor was Theodora, who had gone unerringly to the most nearly comfortable chair, had wriggled herself into it somehow with her legs over the arm and her head tucked in against the back; she was like a cat, Eleanor thought, and clearly a cat waiting for its dinner. Luke was not still for a minute, but moved back and forth across the shadows, filling glasses, stirring the fire, touching the marble cupid; he was bright in the firelight, and restless. They were all silent, looking into the fire, lazy after their several journeys, and Eleanor thought, I am the fourth person in this room; I am one of them; I belong.
    “Since we are all here,” Luke said suddenly, as though there had been no pause in the conversation, “shouldn’t we get acquainted? We know only names, so far. I know that it is Eleanor, here, who is wearing a red sweater, and consequently it must be Theodora who wears yellow—”
    “Doctor Montague has a beard,” Theodora said, “so you must be Luke.”
    “And you are Theodora,” Eleanor said, “because I am Eleanor.” An Eleanor, she told herself triumphantly, who belongs, who is talking easily, who is sitting by the fire with her friends.
    “Therefore you are wearing the red sweater,” Theodora explained to her soberly.
    “I have no beard,” Luke said, “so he must be Doctor Montague.”
    “ I have a beard,” Dr. Montague said, pleased, and looked around at them with a happy beam. “My wife,” he told them, “ likes a man to wear a beard. Many women, on the other hand, find a beard distasteful. A clean-shaven man—you’ll excuse me, my boy—never looks fully dressed, my wife tells me.” He held out his glass to Luke.
    “Now that I know which of us is me,” Luke said, “let me identify myself further. I am, in private life—assuming that this is public life and the rest of the world is actually private—let me see, a bullfighter. Yes. A bullfighter.”
    “I love my love with a B,” Eleanor said in spite