“I advise you to pr—ray for it.”
His prayer, the Mild and Melancholy one reflected, had already been answered. The original sin in him had been self-corrected.
“Here is another antique shop,” said Gumbril. “Shall we stop and have a look at it?”
The stranger glanced at him doubtfully. But he looked quite serious. They stopped.
“How revolting this sham cottage furniture is,” Gumbril remarked. The shop, he noticed, was called ‘Ye Olde Farme House.’
The stranger, who had been on the point of saying how much she liked those lovely Old Welsh dressers, gave him her heartiest agreement. “So v—vulgar.”
“So horribly refined. So refined and artistic.”
She laughed on a descending chromatic scale. This was excitingly new. Poor Aunt Aggie with her Arts and Crafts, and her old English furniture. And to think she had taken them so seriously! She saw in a flash the fastidious lady that she now was—with Louis whatever-it-was furniture at home, and jewels, and young poets to tea, and real artists. In the past, when she had imagined herself entertaining real artists, it had always been among really artistic furniture. Aunt Aggie’s furniture. But now—no, oh no. This man was probably an artist. His beard; and that big black hat. But not poor; very well dressed.
“Yes, it’s funny to think that there are people who call that sort of thing artistic. One’s quite s—sorry for them,” she added, with a little hiss.
“You have a kind heart,” said Gumbril. “I’m glad to see that.”