Farraday helped her down.
“Mrs. Byrd,” said he with his most kindly smile, “here is the key. Would you like to unlock the door yourself?”
She blushed with pleasure. “Oh, yes!” she cried, and turned instinctively to look for Stefan. He was standing at the plateau's edge, scrutinizing the view. She called, but he did not hear. Then she took the key and, hurrying up the little walk, entered the house alone.
A moment later Stefan, hailed stentoriously by McEwan, followed her.
She was standing in a long sitting-room, low-ceilinged and white-walled, with window-seats, geraniums on the sills, brass andirons on the hearth, an eight-day clock, a small old fashioned piano, an oak desk, a chintz-covered grandmother's chair, a gate-legged table, and a braided rag hearth-rug. Her hands were clasped, her eyes shining.
“Oh, Stefan!” she exclaimed as she heard his step. “Isn't it a darling? Wouldn't it be simply ideal for us?”
“It seems just right, and the view is splendid. There's a good deal that's paintable here.”
“Is there? I'm so glad. That makes it perfect. Look at the furniture, Stefan, every bit right.”
“And the moldings,” he added. “All handcut, do you see? The whole place is actually old. What a lark!” He appeared almost as pleased as she.
“Here come the others. Let's go upstairs, dearest,” she whispered.