“Well, sweet, keeping house alone? I've had a jolly day; lucky as old Mr. Luck.”
“Have you?” she cried, springing up. “I'm so glad. Come, see the house.”
“You look a little pale,” he said, as they strolled out to the conservatory together.
“Just a little tired,” she admitted. “Do you know, Rodney, I hated this house at five o'clock—positively hated it?”
“Why?”
“Oh, I don't know; I was thinking. But I liked it at half-past six. I love it now. I've got used to it, as if I had always lived here. Isn't it beautiful everywhere? But I'm going to make some changes.”
“A hanging garden on the roof?” Henderson asked, with meekness.
“That would be nice. No, not now. But to make over and take off the new look. Everything looks so new.”
“Well, we will try to live that down.”
And so they wandered on, admiring, bantering, planning. Could Etienne Debree have seen his descendant at this moment he would have been more than ever proud of his share in establishing the great republic, and of his appreciation of the promise of its beauty. What satisfies a woman's heart is luxury, thought Henderson, in an admiring cynical moment.