The fortnight of Lily’s stay at Hardingham was spent by him and Maurice in a fever of decoration. Michael bought oval mirrors of Venetian glass; oblong mirrors crowned with gilt griffins and scallops; small round mirrors in frames of porcelain garlanded with flowerbuds; so many mirrors that the room became even more mysteriously vast. The walls were hung with brocades of gold and philamot and pomona green. There were slim settees the color of ivory, with cushions of primrose and lemon satin, of cinnamon and canary citron and worn russet silks. Over the parquet was a great gray Aubusson carpet with a design of monstrous roses as deep as damsons or burgundy; and from the ceiling hung two chandeliers of cut glass.
“You know,” said Maurice seriously, “she’ll have to be very beautiful to carry this off.”
“She is very beautiful,” said Michael. “And there’s room for her to walk about here. She’ll move about this room as wonderfully as those swans upon the canal.”
“Michael, what’s happened to you? You’re becoming as eccentric as me.” Maurice looked at him rather jealously. “And, I say, do you really want me to come with you to King’s Cross to-morrow afternoon?”
Michael nodded.
“After you’ve helped to gather together this room, you deserve to see the person we’ve done it for.”
“Yes, but look here. Who’s going to stay in the flat with her? You can’t leave her alone until you’re married. As you told me the story, it sounded very romantic; but if she’s going to be your wife, you’ve got to guard her reputation.”
Michael had never given Maurice more than a slight elaboration of the tale which had served for Stella; and he thought how much more romantic Maurice would consider the affair if he knew the whole truth. He felt inclined to tell him, but he doubted his ability to keep it to himself.
“I thought of getting hold of some elderly woman,” he said.
“That’s all very well, but you ought to have been doing it all this time.”