“The house has been empty long enough,” said the old woman.
Margaret refused to argue. “I dare say we didn’t explain,” she said civilly. “It has been a mistake, and very likely our mistake.”
“Mrs. Wilcox, it has been mistake upon mistake for fifty years. The house is Mrs. Wilcox’s, and she would not desire it to stand empty any longer.”
To help the poor decaying brain, Margaret said:
“Yes, Mrs. Wilcox’s house, the mother of Mr. Charles.”
“Mistake upon mistake,” said Miss Avery. “Mistake upon mistake.”
“Well, I don’t know,” said Margaret, sitting down in one of her own chairs. “I really don’t know what’s to be done.” She could not help laughing.
The other said: “Yes, it should be a merry house enough.”
“I don’t know—I dare say. Well, thank you very much, Miss Avery. Yes, that’s all right. Delightful.”
“There is still the parlour.” She went through the door opposite and drew a curtain. Light flooded the drawing-room and the drawing-room furniture from Wickham Place. “And the dining-room.” More curtains were drawn, more windows were flung open to the spring. “Then through here—” Miss Avery continued passing and repassing through the hall. Her voice was lost, but Margaret heard her pulling up the kitchen blind. “I’ve not finished here yet,” she announced, returning. “There’s still a deal to do. The farm lads will carry your great wardrobes upstairs, for there is no need to go into expense at Hilton.”