He said that three would be perfect, secure, from his glance at the deep, comely bed, that they would be beautifully thick and fleecy.
“Then you’ll come down to us when you are ready.” She stood in the door to look round again. “Matches here, you see; biscuits in the little earthenware box; and the spirit-lamp is in case you should wake in the night—you could make yourself a cup of cocoa? Everything is there—cocoa, milk, and sugar. It usually sends one off again directly.”
It was all the slightly shy hostess rather than the businesslike soother and sustainer; and, no, it wasn’t a bit cosy. He repudiated that word indignantly, while he washed—the water was very hot, admirably hot; there was a complacency about cosy, and Mrs. Baldwin had no complacency, though she was, for all her shyness and the unconscious gestures of physical nervousness, composed. Her hands, he remembered, recalling their little trick,—he had noticed it in the hall,—were like a child’s; not the hands of a practical housewife. Yet, from the look of that bed (yes, thank heaven, a box-spring mattress!), from the heat of the water, and, above all, the deft and accessible grouping of the spirit-lamp and its adjuncts, she proved that she knew how to make one comfortable.
There were the meadows and—going again to the window, he wondered leaning out,—could he see the autumn crocuses? Yes, surely; even at this evening hour his eyes distinguished the pale yet delicately purpling tint that streaked the pastoral verdure. What a delicious place, indeed! He stood, absorbed in looking out, until the maid came to say that supper would be ready in five minutes.
The long room, the living-room,—for it combined, he saw, all social functions,—also faced the meadows at the back of the house, and the primrose coloured sunset still filled it as he entered. Mrs. Baldwin was busying herself with the table, and an old gentleman with a very long white beard rose, with much dignity, from the grandfather’s chair near a window-seat. Mr. Haseltine, so his daughter named him, had more the air of seeing the visitor as a P.G., perhaps even as a shell-shock patient; but he was a nice old man, Guy felt, although his beard was too long. He wore a brown velveteen jacket, and Guy surmised that he might have been a writer or scholar of some not very significant sort.
“Yes, we think ours a very favored nook indeed,” he said, as Guy again praised the prospect. “Yes; three cottages. Very happily contrived, is it not? There is a clever builder in the next town. He kept the old fireplace, you see; that end was a kitchen and the beams are all the old ones. Three gardens, too, thrown into one; but that is entirely my daughter’s creation. Pig-styes used to be in that corner.”
Guy looked out at the squares of colour, the low beds of mignonette, the phloxes, larkspurs, and the late sweet-peas a screen of stained-glass tints against the sky. Where the pig-styes had been was a little thatched summer-house with rustic seat and table. The bee-hives were just outside the hedge, at an angle of the meadow. Mr. Haseltine continued to talk while Mrs. Baldwin and the maid came in and out, carrying tea and eggs and covered dishes.
“I hope you don’t mind high tea,” she said. “It seems to go with our life here.”
He felt that high tea was his favourite meal. There was a big white earthenware bowl on the table, filled with sweet-peas. “Where do you get the old-fashioned colours?” he asked her. “I thought the growers had extirpated them; one sees only the long-stemmed ones nowadays, with the tiresome artistic shades.”
He pleased her again, he felt sure, and she told him that she always saved the seed, liking the old bright colours better, too.