Legacy Of Terror

room and the den I saw.”
    “Of course, certain rooms are perfect,” Dennis agreed. “But I'm speaking of the over-all feel of it. The drawing room is damned Victorian-and not tastefully Victorian either. Clumpy furniture, everything overstuffed, bad wallpaper. Ugh!”
    Dennis, at twenty-five, was the older of the Matherly brothers, though Elaine thought he acted like the younger. He was always talking with a queer excitement that kept her on edge. He found everything interesting and tried to show the others how fascinating this alcove was or that attic room could be if properly finished. He was a terribly good-looking man, muscular as his father was. But there was something spoiled about his face, something too heavy in the line of his mouth. He had always had money, and he had been spoiled by it. He dressed a bit too loud. He wore dark blue corduroy bellbottoms, along with a deep wine colored shirt with too many buttons and useless epaulets on the shoulders. His hair fell over his collar and was brushed over his ears so that only the lobes were visible.
    Elaine did not care much for him.
    On the other hand, she found Gordon Matherly, Dennis' brother, quite charming. He was as quiet as she was, rarely speaking unless directly addressed. He was not so flamboyantly handsome as his older brother nor so muscular as his father. He was lean and intense and very serious. All Elaine knew of him was that he had graduated with a B.A. in business from Pitt and was just beginning studies aimed at his Master's degree. He was, in other words, a man who accomplished things.
    Dennis, as far as she could see, accomplished very little. He had studied painting and maintained a studio in the finished half of the attic. He had not made a financial success of his work. Elaine doubted that he ever would.
    “Of course,” Celia Tamlin said, “I have only first impressions to go on so far. But I really do think you would gain the most out of a change if you opted for a generous use of ultra-modern California grouping for your main rooms. Plastics and lamanated woods, chrome and specially treated leathers. A light wall perhaps, changing patterns and colors. The contrast between the positively gothic look of this house and the far-out furniture would create an entirely new aesthetic whole.”
    Lee Matherly was as skeptical as Elaine, though he vocalized his skepticism. “I've always sort of liked the house. It's quiet and restful, the furniture so dark.”
    “I agree with Celia,” Paul Honneker said. “I suppose it's really none of my business, since I'm not of the family, but I think the dreary place could use a- light wall.” He was a large, ruddy-faced man with hands nearly as big as the dinner plates. His hair was in disarray, and he looked as if he had slept in his clothes. Despite this sign of a disorderly mind, Elaine rather liked him. He was a painfully honest man, she realized, as he had proved several times during the meal by stating his disagreement with some particularly empty-headed notion the interior decorator had proposed. If he agreed with her now, he was not merely trying to make amends, but presenting a genuine opinion.
    “Well,” Dennis said, finishing with his food, “I've asked Celia to stay overnight, at least, to get the live-in feel of the place.”
    “Good idea,” Lee said, as if he were hopeful that she would come to love the clumsy, dark furniture as much as he did.
    Even if she did not learn to love the place, Lee would give Dennis the okay for major changes without much protest. Elaine was sure of that. Already, she could see that Lee favored his gaudier son. She could not say why.
    “Better yet,” Lee said, “why not stay the weekend, Celia. If you have no other plans, we'd welcome you here.” This was Thursday evening, with a full day left of the work week, but Celia said she could manage it. “Well,” Dennis said, “you'd better get started back to town to pack a bag or two. Should I come along?”
    Celia said, “No, no. I can be into the city and back here by eleven, if that's not too late. I don't need an escort. And I know how much you've been wanting to finish the oil you're working on.”
    “I have been a bit restless to get on with it,” Dennis admitted.
    “Another landscape?” Gordon asked. It was one of the few times he had spoken on his own initiative.
    “No, something special,” Dennis said, ignoring the tone of sarcasm in his younger brother's voice.
    “A portrait of Celia, then?"'
    Dennis laughed. “You