Sure enough, when the lid of the trunk was lifted, and Planchet plucked forth a truly exquisite rug and flung it dexterously across a chair, my grey-eyed cousin let out a gasp which an infant in arms could not have misinterpreted.
There was only one thing to be done, and Daphne did it.
With a heroic disregard for her reputation, she shook her head.
"Too bright," she said shortly. "Don't you think so?" she added, turning to Berry.
The latter swallowed before replying.
"It's positively gaudy," he said gloomily.
Planchet shrugged his shoulders and began to unfasten a bale….
By the time seven more Persian rugs—all old and all more than ordinarily pleasing in design and colouring—were sprawling about the chamber, any organised depreciation was out of the question. Where all were so beautiful, it required a larger output of moral courage than any one of us could essay to decry the whole pack. By way of doing his or her bit, everybody decided to praise one or two to the implied condemnation of the remainder. In the absence of collusion, it was inevitable that those rugs which somebody had thus branded as goats should invariably include somebody else's sheep. The result was that every single rug had its following. A glance at their owner, who was standing aside, making no offer to commend his carpets, but fingering his chin and watching us narrowly with quick-moving eyes, showed that he was solely engaged in considering how much he dared ask.
I moved across to him.
"You only come here twice a year?" I inquired.