“If you had only mentioned it in time, I could have gratified you more effectually.”
“I suppose it is Aunt Cherry’s charity,” said Anna, recovering. “The reflection that but for her the poor natives would never have been able to go to their German baths.”
“Oh, no such philanthropy, my dear. It is homeliness, or rather homeyness, that is dear to my bourgeoise mind. I was afraid of spick-and-span, sap-green aestheticism, but those curtains have done their own fading in pleasing shades, that good old sofa can be lain upon, and there’s a real comfortable crack on that frame; while as to the chiffonier, is not it the marrow of the one Mrs. Froggatt left us, where Wilmet kept all the things in want of mending?”
“Ah! didn’t you shudder when she turned the key?” said Lance.
“Not knowing what was good for me.”
“But you will send for some of our things and make it nice,” entreated Anna, “or Gerald will never stay here.”
“Never fear; we’ll have it presentable by the vacation. As for Uncle Clement, he would never see whether he was in a hermit’s cell, if he only had one arm-chair and one print from Raffaelle.”
There was a certain arch ring in her voice that had long been absent, and Anna looked joyous as she waited on them both.
“I am glad you brought her,” said Lance, as she set off with Uncle Clement’s tea.
“Yes, she would not hear of the charms of the season.”