“These paths are something dreadful, Emmie,” said Miss Horne, as the three of them scrambled up through the garden. “Never mind, we’ll get the roller out of the hedge when Mr. Pluepott comes in on Wednesday. Miss Hobart nearly got carried away by the roller yesterday,” she explained to Sylvia.
A trellised porch outside the bungalow—such apparently was the correct name for these habitations—afforded a view of the opposite slope, which was sprinkled with bungalows surrounded like Sunny Bank by heaps of stones; there were also one or two more pretentious buildings of red brick and one or two stony gardens without a dwelling-place as yet.
“I suppose you’re wondering why the name over the door isn’t the same as the one on the gate? Mr. Pluepott is always going to take it out, but he never remembers to bring the paint. It’s the name the man from whom we bought it gave the bungalow,” said Miss Hobart, crossly. Sylvia read in gothic characters over the door Floral Nook, and agreed with the two ladies that Sunny Bank was much more suitable.
“For whatever else it may be, it certainly isn’t damp,” Miss Horne declared. “But, dear me, talking of names, you haven’t told us yours.”
Sylvia felt shy. It was actually the first time she had been called upon to announce herself since she was married. The two ladies exclaimed on hearing she was Mrs. Iredale, and Sylvia felt that there was a kind of impropriety in her being married, when Miss Horne and Miss Hobart, who were so very much older than she, were still spinsters.
The four small rooms of which the bungalow consisted were lined with varnished match-boarding; everything was tied up with brightly colored bows of silk, and most of the pictures were draped with small curtains; the bungalow was full of knickknacks and shivery furniture, but not full enough to satisfy the owners’ passion for prettiness, so that wherever there was a little space on the walls silk bows had been nailed about like political favors. Sylvia thought it would have been simpler to tie a wide sash of pink silk round the house and call it The Chocolate Box. Tea, though even the spoons were tied up with silk, was a varied and satisfying meal. The conversation of the two ladies was remarkably entertaining when it touched upon their neighbors, and when twilight warned Sylvia that she must hurry away she was sorry to leave them. While she was making her farewells there was a loud tap at the door, followed immediately by the entrance of a small bullet-headed man with quick black eyes.
“I’ve brought back your turkey, Miss Horne.”
“Oh, thank you, Mr. Pluepott. There you are, Emmie. You were right.”
At this moment the bird began to flap its wings as violently as its position head downward would allow; nor, not being a horse, did it pay any attention to Mr. Pluepott’s repeated shouts of “Woa! Woa back, will you!”
“I think you’d better let him flap outside, Mr. Pluepott,” Miss Hobart advised.