“This is quite a pleasant room you have here,” he said in his Cornish voice, with the alert, subtle, faintly smiling look of wonder on his face.
“It isn’t bad,” said Harriet. “But a bit poky.”
“Poky you call it? Do you remember the little stone holes they have for rooms in those old stone Cornish cottages?”
“Yes—but we had a lovely one. And the great thick granite walls and the low ceilings.”
“Walls always letting the damp in, can’t keep it out, because all the chinks and spaces are just stuffed with plain earth, and a bit of mortar smeared over the outside like butter scraped on bread. Don’t I remember it! I should think I do.”
“Cornwall had a great charm for me.”
“Well, I don’t know where you found it, I’m sure. But I suppose you’ve got a way of your own with a place, let it be Cornwall or where it may, to make it look well. It all depends where you’re born and where you come from.”
“Perhaps,” said Harriet.
“I’ve never seen an Australian cottage looking like this, now. And yet it isn’t the number of things you’ve put into it.”
“The number I’ve taken out,” laughed Harriet.