“Yes, yes, to-morrow, don’t worry,” George shouted to the children.
“Mr. Martin’s been awfully kind at keeping them amused,” said Phyllis. “Mr. Martin, Mr. and Mrs. Brook, Miss Clyde.—George, turn on the light, Mr. Martin can’t see us.”
The button clicked, the bulbs jumped to attention, mere loops of pale wire beside the orange shaft of sun. Martin scrambled suddenly to his feet.
“How do you do,” he said.
“What stunning towels,” Ruth remarked as Phyllis was pointing out the hot-water tap. The embroidery of Phyllis’s maiden initials was luxuriously illegible, in some sort of Old High German character. “Surely those didn’t come with the house?”
“No; they’re mine; all that’s left of my trousseau. What George calls my pre-war towels.”
But Ruth was too busy in her own thoughts to pursue little jokes.
“Your artist man is rather extraordinary,” she said. “Why should any one so attractive need to be so bashful?”
“He’s not really bashful.—There, I think you’ll find everything you need.”